


A Story of How Javert Fell in Love

by TheTitaniumSerpent



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, May/December Relationship, POV Alternating, Romance, Smut, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 00:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16692241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTitaniumSerpent/pseuds/TheTitaniumSerpent
Summary: Instead of Marius and Cosette falling in love at the Jardin du Luxembourg, Cosette meets the eyes of an older policeman: Inspector Javert.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: 
> 
> This fiction depicts a relationship with a huge age difference. If it isn't your cup of tea, please move to another work without reading. There will also be some smut. Be warned. 
> 
> I am using book canon instead of movie or play. Javert is not handsome and Cosette is not blonde.
> 
> English is my third language and I have no beta yet, but I learn when someone points out my grammatical mistakes. Please feel free to do so :) 
> 
> Rating is for later chapters.

Cosette's father took her to Jardin du Luxembourg every day. Raised in a convent, Cosette had had very few chances to observe other people: while she was in the convent school, she'd only met and spoken to the Sisters and the young girls raised in the nunnery on a daily basis, and uncle Fauchelevent and Cosette's father, both gardeners for the convent, were the only males present. In contrast, Jardin du Luxembourg was brimming with life: interesting outfits and attires; young men, young women, old men, old women, children, adult men, adult women; dogs, cats, birds, horses and carts to look at. Women in fancy gowns, men in handsome uniforms. Beggars rarely came here, the police saw to that, but Cosette had seen them too: Paris was brimming with them, and it was almost impossible to keep them out from any public place. Their home at Rue l'Ouest was close by: here, life brimmed, bubbled and boiled over.

They sat on a certain bench every day: they'd talk or simply enjoy the sun and the people and the company of the other: the deep affection between a father and his daughter. And Cosette would look at beautiful gowns: her father had bought her her own dresses, gloves, hats and silk shoes to replace the bleak uniform she'd worn at the convent. 

The days were beautiful and she knew her father looked very handsome and respectable in his National Guardman's uniform. She was, indeed, very proud to share these walks with him, though she never said so: pride was a sin, and father was strictly against sin. Father and their servant Toussaint had told her she'd grown very beautiful. 

There, one day, Cosette saw him. The Man.

The first thing she saw was the uniform. A high-ranking policeman in a fine-fitting uniform: it was immaculately cut, pristine and well-kept. His boots shone, and he wore his officer's hat. He was very tall, and every movement exuded power and confidence. 

His hair was dark, slightly greying on the sides, and covered his forehead, pressed down by his hat so it reached his dark eyebrows. His face was square-shaped; his cheeks were covered by large, slightly greying sideburns, and his nose was very flat, with large nostrils; he had strong a jaw; he was older, though probably not quite as old as father — having had so little contact with other people, Cosette couldn't estimate his age. He was not a beautiful man, but he was very powerful, very tall, and very confident. 

Cosette looked at him, her curiosity piqued: and then the policeman looked at her and seemed to freeze as their eyes met.

Cosette saw the man's eyes widen as they looked at each other, and his jaw fell slightly open. He'd stopped walking: he'd stopped moving completely. He looked like someone utterly amazed and stunned, and his eyes seemed like they were drilling a hole inside her soul.

Cosette dropped her gaze on the gravel path: surely it was a sin to look at a man like this? Was she behaving badly, displaying ill manners? Perhaps he was appalled? She dared to look up again through her long eyelashes and found him there: he was still staring at her. Cosette lowered her eyes once more, her rosy cheeks flushing.

Perhaps the policeman wasn't looking at her, but rather someone behind her? Or was something perhaps wrong with her outfit? Had she made a fool of herself in some way? 

Cosette looked again. The man was still there.

“Cosette?” her father said.

“Yes, father?” 

“Do you think we could head back home?” he asked. “I rather think I have had enough sun for tonight, and I wish to drop a few sous to the beggars at Église Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas.”

“Yes, father. Of course,” Cosette said, and rose to her feet. Father escorted her away, but a quick glance back told her that the policeman was still there. And he was still staring at them, his eyes following them.

 

***********************************************

It took Inspector Javert quite a while to get his body under control. In his fifty years upon this earth he'd never lost control like this. He'd been furious before, of course, outraged and raving, but it'd been different. This was something new, something unexpected. Uncontrollable, undeniable.

He'd only meant to stroll through Jardin du Luxembourg on a beautiful day, meant to see that no beggars and thieves were bothering the decent people strolling there. He hadn't meant to look at anyone, but she'd drawn his eyes: long, chestnut brown hair with streaks of gold running through it; graceful pose worthy of a queen on her tall, lithe frame; dark blue eyes surrounded by impossibly long eyelashes; graceful hands in small gloves, rosy cheeks, tiny feet in beautiful silk shoes. Well-dressed, a picture of a beautiful young maiden. She was fifteen, definitely no more than sixteen, and breathtakingly beautiful: but then she'd looked up, looked the frightening Inspector Javert straight in his eyes, and time itself seemed to stop. 

Very few people dared to look him in the eyes: those who did, usually cowered in front of him. This girl, however, had looked with gentle and soft curiosity and something more, and it had taken the air from his lungs: his chest had suddenly felt so very tight, his heart had tried to flee from his chest, slamming against his ribcage furiously. All sounds vanished and everything else blurred to inconsequential around him. She'd averted her eyes and Javert had realised he missed the contact: then she looked up again, and his ears had begun to buzz. 

He had no idea of how long he'd stood there, just staring at her, until the old man she'd been accompanying had risen up and departed, taking the beautiful angel with him. Javert hadn't paid any attention to the man, only nothing he wore the uniform of the National Guard: his whole being was concentrated on the girl. Only after she'd gone he shook his head, amazed, disconcerted, shaken to the core. 

He hadn't followed her: it probably would have been indecent to approach her, a complete stranger sitting innocently in a park with someone... a father? A grandfather? A guardian?

Javert managed to walk home, although he had to stop several times, for his knees felt weak and his hands shook. He wondered who she was, what was she called, would she be there tomorrow? Was he developing a cold, perhaps, feeling the way he did? Falling ill all of a sudden?

Poor Inspector Javert had lived fifty years without feeling love. Unloved by parents, feeling no affection for anyone or anything but the law. Now he'd been struck by a love, infected by the gaze of a young innocent girl, and poor Javert had no defence against that: he could not even truly recognise what ailed him. 

For Inspector Javert had just fallen helplessly in love. 

 

***********************************************

 

The next day Inspector Javert found himself back at Jardin du Luxembourg, but she wasn't there. He walked through the garden several times before he departed for his work, returning later only to find the park bench empty. He returned the next day, and the next, and became increasingly sad and ill-tempered, though he couldn't quite define why exactly it was so important to see the girl with the deepest blue eyes and long lashes.

 

***********************************************

 

The next day Cosette's father had hired a carriage to take them to Jardin des Plantes instead of their usual stroll to Jardin du Luxembourg, though the latter was close by. The next day father insisted on returning to Jardin des Plantes to see the ménagerie: Cosette found the animals fascinating, but she would have liked to have seen if the police officer in his uniform would return. On the third day father hired the carriage once more and insisted that while he was too tired to walk in a park, they could drive around a bit. From that day forward father didn't wish to stroll in Jardin du Luxembourg at all, and took Cosette to either on a ride in a carriage or to Jardin des Plantes, and Cosette was disappointed. 

A week later father had them move to their things from Rue de l'Ouest to Rue Plumet once more. The house at Rue Plumet had a lovely, secluded and untended garden behind a large stone fence: the place was secluded and silent. No visitors came here; no letters or papers arrived to the letter box on the Rue Babylone-side. 

Father then took her to Champ de Mars, where they would sit and walk. Cosette did not like it as much as she liked Jardin du Luxembourg, and she did not see the police officer in his handsome uniform, though she would have liked to have seen him, if only just for a while. A few times they drove around in a rented carriage, even though it was expensive, sometimes passing Jardin du Luxembourg but never stopping there. 

And in a rented carriage Cosette saw the police officer the next time.

 

***********************************************

As weeks and then months went by, Javert had grown restless and uneasy. He'd never found great pleasure in dining, but now he only ate when he had to. He hadn't taken any snuff for weeks: it had been his only vice, and he'd taken it only when he felt very satisfied with himself: now he never seemed to feel satisfied. He dreamt of the girl in Jardin du Luxembourg and walked through the park daily, though in vain: and every time he did, he promised he wouldn't go again, only to return the next day. 

One day, months since he'd seen the beautiful girl who wouldn't stop haunting his dreams, he was walking from Jardin du Luxembourg when a carriage drove past him and some instinct drew his eyes to it. And in that open carriage sat the beautiful girl he'd seen so long ago: her lovely brown hair, her lovely deep blue eyes staring at him, and that delicate hand in a glove clutching the side of the carriage as she looked straight at him. The carriage had already almost passed him, and the girl turned in her seat to look at him as the carriage swept past, keeping her lovely eyes on him. Javert's feet walked towards the carriage of their own volition: he couldn't have stopped himself if he tried. Next to her in the carriage sat a white-haired old man, but he was looking the other way, and before Javert thought of looking at anything but the girl, the carriage had turned a corner and was gone.

He could have ran after it, but how could he have justified it, chasing a civilian carriage on foot because the most beautiful girl in all of France happened to sit in it? He was an officer of the law: he couldn't chase an innocent civilian like that. 

The carriage had been a rental carriage, and for a police officer it was easy to find the stable and the driver. The man, when questioned, remembered the white-haired man and the pretty girl with brown hair: he told Javert he'd picked them up and dropped them off close to Eglise Saint-Sulpice, and Javert began to patrol in that area, hoping that he'd see her there.

The carriage driver, a man named Maurice, sneered when Javert had departed. He hated Javert with all his heart: the deplorable man had once chided Maurice for being very drunk on the job on a cold winter day — but winters could be mercilessly chilling when a man drove a carriage for hours around Paris. The horse could run for warmth, but the driver could only sit in the bad weather and freeze, and wine kept a man warm. He'd also once arrested Maurice's best friend, who'd been so drunk he'd fallen off his carriage, and the man had been heavily fined so that his family had to go hungry for days on end. No, Maurice had no sympathy for the cold and cruel Inspector Javert, and so he'd lied and sent the sneak to a wrong direction. Maurice had driven the white-haired gentleman and his sweet daughter before, and had always been paid fairly for his effort. Maurice would never assist a police.

 

***********************************************

 

In the darkness, Marius Pontmercy clutched one of the two pistols given to him by Inspector Javert. He'd debated long and hard whether or not he'd help the old man and his daughter, who were threatened by his shady neighbours, the Jondrette-family. In the end he'd ran to the police, deciding that he couldn't live with his conscience if the old philanthropist with the pretty daughter would be hurt, possibly even killed. He'd recognised the pair from Jardin du Luxembourg, though they'd stopped coming there months ago. The girl was very beautiful and well-dressed, and the old man looked very decent. They'd come to the criminal family bearing wares and promised them money to pay their rent: instead, the criminals intended to rob them. Marius didn't want anyone hurt, and though the Jondrettes were without a doubt poor and miserable, wrong was wrong and right was right. 

Marius had expected the old man to arrive alone, for the hour was late and he'd said he'd take his daughter home, but to his shock the young girl was with him: wasn't he supposed to escort her home? The girl was carrying clean bandages and blankets as well as a large loaf of bread. “Would you please let me see the poor, injured girl? I've brought fresh bandages for her,” she requested: she had an extremely soft and sweet voice.

“My daughters are outside looking for something to eat, mademoiselle, but they'll return shortly,” Jondrette replied smoothly.

The Jondrettes were obviously shocked to see the girl return, but the husband quietly sent the wife to send away their carriage, and various other men entered the room, all of them obviously with bad intentions. Then, very suddenly, the criminals attacked the old man and his daughter, and in a matter of moments they were caught and subdued: the old man seemed strong, but the girl was helpless, and one of the men threatened to hurt the girl unless the man gave up: he'd picked up a chair and was about to hit one of the men with it, but when they threatened his daughter, the old man looked desperate and the chair fell from his hands that had gone limp. One of the men hit the brown-haired girl on the face when she screamed and struggled against them. The others were quickly tying the old, white-haired man down. 

Marius shook himself out of the shocked state and aimed the other pistol to the roof. He pulled the trigger, and the gunshot made his ears ring in the small room. 

The men and Jondrette's wife in the second room had frozen in their tracks: in a matter of moments the police came barging in. Some of the criminals tried to flee through the window in the back, but they fought each other to get out first, and the voices outside indicated that the way was also blocked. Then Inspector Javert himself strolled in through the door, laughing at the criminals, who tried to take a defensive formation, armed with their various metallic weapons. Javert seemed to find it all quite humorous, until his his eyes landed on the girl, who'd fallen on the floor as the man who'd been holding her down let go. She'd turned her face to Javert, and Javert's face suddenly grew very pale.

 

***********************************************

 

Javert could barely believe his eyes. He could, in fact, barely breathe: he'd dreamed of her for months every night, seen her face in front of his eyes when he'd tried to work, woken up hot and wanting and miserable; sometimes he'd woken up shouting in helpless ecstasy into the empty room as his body reacted on its own, and now, quite suddenly and unexpectedly she was there, on the floor of the filthy room, an angry red mark on her face where someone had hit her hard, and a few tears in her frightened blue eyes. Her lip was bleeding, and the world turned red in Javert's eyes. 

Thénardier — or Jondrette, as he preferred to call himself now — aimed a pistol at him and pulled the trigger, but Javert could not have cared less: the pistol wouldn't work, and Javert did not fear death. He only had eyes for her: the most beautiful girl, the perfect, lovely being was in the room, and she was hurt. His eyes held hers as he ordered his men to restrain the ruffians: he approached her, took her hands and helped her up carefully, holding her like the most precious treasure on Earth. His men were restraining the Patron-Minette; Thénardier's wife put up a fuss, but Javert could do nothing but hold those small, lovely hands and look into those beautiful, beautiful eyes. Her lips were close to his, and everything in him screamed for him to kiss them, even though her lower lip was red with blood.

Javert wanted to wipe off some of her tears with his fingers, mesmerized by the colour of her blue eyes, but touching her face would have been indecent. He wanted to twine his fingers into her thick and silky hair. He could smell the sweet scent of her, and he struggled to hold propriety and not pull her into his arms, lest she be frightened. Though it wasn't exactly acceptable, he kept hold of her small hands, unable to let go.

“Are you all right, mademoiselle?” he asked quietly.

“Yes, monsieur, thank you,” the girl replied, and Javert felt hot and cold shivers at the sound of her soft, sweet voice.

“They struck you,” he could only say quietly. “Did they do anything else?”

“No, just that one strike,” she replied, her face sombre and yet so very beautiful.

“May I ask your name, mademoiselle?” Javert asked quietly. He knew he should have concentrated on the arrest, and he knew he should have remembered something else, but right now nothing else seemed to matter: she was here, she was finally here, and she was so close, and he was touching her...

“Ah! my name is Cosette, Cosette Fauchelevent, monsieur,” she replied.

“Cosette,” Javert breathed reverently. “I am Inspector Javert. I am honoured to meet you, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent.”

She smiled at him: Javert thought he might do anything to have her smile again like that. 

“Did we get them all?” Javert asked one of his men, aware that he ought to let her hands go, still utterly unable to do so. 

“Yes, sir, quite a catch for one evening!” the man replied, smirking. 

“Very well. Put handcuffs for them all and take them away. I shall escort this young lady and her father home. Cut his bindings loose. Monsieur Fauchelevent, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, please wait while I write my report.” He allowed his thumb to caress her hand before he let it to slip from his grasp, and when she smiled, he could feel heat pooling from his toes to his face, where he could feel the skin underneath his sideburns flare hot. An inspector should most definitely not blush like a girl, not on duty and not when a pretty young girl was smiling at him. His trousers felt all too tight and warm. 

Javert wrote the official report, but it took him an inordinate amount of time, because he simply could not keep his eyes on the paper: they seemed to wander to the beautiful girl of their own accord. 

And instead of the usual 'thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump', his heart said 'Co-sette, Co-sette, Co-sette.'

 

***********************************************

 

Cosette waited patiently as the inspector finished his paperwork. The policemen and the gendarmes held and tied down the prisoners with chains and handcuffs and released father while the man, Inspector Javert, wrote down on his papers. Father held himself back and did not approach her, but Cosette felt quite safe here, although the prisoners frightened her and her face still stung and her lip throbbed in pain. Up close, Inspector Javert was much larger than she'd even though: he was tall, practically towering over her, and his hands were so big they had covered hers easily. He could have been considered quite intimidating, but she liked the softness in his eyes when he looked at her, and she'd liked the way his admittedly thin lips had twitched, like he'd wanted to smile but wasn't quite certain how one would go about doing such a thing. 

Soon enough the policemen led the criminals away, and after giving some quick orders to his men, Inspector Javert approached her. Cosette wanted to offer him her hand again, but it would have been wholly inappropriate. The inspector stood close to her, though.

“I would now escort you and your daughter home, Monsieur Fauchelevent, if you would allow it”, he said, addressing Cosette's father but keeping his eyes on her. He was now wearing a long coat over his uniform, but it suited him well. 

“Thank you, Monsieur l'Inspecteur,” father said quietly and with a very soft voice, “Although I'm sure you are a busy man, and you needn't bother. My daughter and I can easily take a carriage on our...”

“It is of no bother at all,” the inspector interrupted quickly. “My work here is done for now. I'm afraid we did not catch the entire Patron-Minette, and several members are on the loose. I'm afraid they sent your carriage away, but I have sent one of my officers to secure one. I will escort you home and return tomorrow to take your statements. Do you need medical assistance?” Javert's eyes searched her face: he didn't even seem to look at her father. 

“No, I'm fine, Monsieur l'Inspecteur,” she replied. “I think rest and some ice will suffice.”

“Good. May I assist you?” he offered, giving her his arm like a gentleman. Cosette placed her small hand on his arm, and he walked by her side, his posture rigid and straight, out of the dismal and dark rooms, through the corridor and out into the street. The policemen and the gendarmes were shoving and pushing the criminals into carriages especially built to transport prisoners: sturdy and large, reinforced and heavily guarded, unlike the smaller and lighter rental coaches Cosette and her father used frequently.

The coach for them was waiting. “Monsieur Fauchelevent, would you please give the driver your address,” Inspector Javert said quietly, as he escorted her to the carriage and opened the door. Father quickly gave the address and slipped some coins to the driver, who nodded. Inspector Javert waited by the door, gesturing for her father to enter the carriage first when father hesitated for a moment. The inspector then supported her for balance as she stepped in, and entered behind her when she'd sat down safely next to her father.

Sitting down across them, Inspector Javert closed the door and the carriage took off. His eyes were still on her, relentlessly searching her face and eyes for something, though Cosette knew not what. 

“Thank you for saving out lives, Monsieur l'Inspecteur,” she said as the carriage rattled over the cobblestones, and felt quite young and silly and awkward. Here was the man she'd only seen twice, only for a very short time each, and she really knew nothing about him, with the sole exception of his last name and rank. Was he married? Did he think she was beautiful? He was a very high-ranking police officer, Cosette guessed: and it was obvious that even the criminals who had captured her and father had feared him: all the other policemen and the gendarmes were very respectful of him, and the man who'd hit Cossette had cowered in front of him as he'd glared at him. 

“I am glad we got there in time, and saddened that we reached you too late to prevent them front striking you, mademoiselle,” Inspector Javert said gravely. “It was a dangerous place. Those men are hardened, cruel criminals with no remorse and no respect for the law. Like all lawbreakers, they'd have just as easily killed you as they struck you, and taken your life just as easily as they would have taken your money.”

Cosette shivered.

“We got a fortunate tip merely hours before the deed,” he continued. “A young neighbour overheard their plans of robbery and was able to warn us, as well as give us a warning by shooting a bullet with a pistol when they could be caught in the act. Unfortunately the tip was partially wrong, for we were only expecting one, male robbery victim.”

“Father was going to take me home, but I felt pity for the poor, injured girl, and decided to bring her bandages and some clothes...” Cosette stopped, for Inspector Javert had turned to look at Cosette's father. His face had grown very pale and he stared at him mutely, his lips thin and closed, his eyes narrowing. Father looked back at him, and Cosette could have sworn something unsaid passed between them, but neither of the men said anything.

“Father?” Cosette tried in vain. “Monsieur l'Inspecteur?” The man looked at her instantly, his expression strange, his eyes disturbed. Just then the carriage halted with a jolt: they'd arrived to their destination, but neither of the two men made any movement to open the door. 

“Father?” Cosette tried again, “I believe we're home?”

Father nodded. “Yes, Cosette,” he said, his eyes still on Inspector Javert, who, after a small hesitation, slowly opened the door and exited the carriage. He gave his hand to Cosette and helped her out of the carriage, his eyes again searching her face or looking deep into her eyes: only this time he looked at father again and again, then returning to Cosette. He looked disconcerted and troubled. He told the driver to wait for him. 

“Which floor do you live in?” Inspector Javert asked Cosette's father.

“Third floor,” father answered.

“Very well... Mademoiselle Fauchelevent,” the inspector said finally, “Monsieur Fauchelevent. I shall return in the morning. I bid you good night.” He was still holding Cosette's hand, the one she'd extended to him when she'd risen from the carriage, and the inspector lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the air above it, bowing politely. Cosette felt her knees go weak, and she smiled at him again.

“Until tomorrow then, Monsieur l'Inspecteur,” she said. Father did not comment: he nodded curtly, which was unusual, for father was usually very polite. Father guided her through the gate, greeting the familiar porter. Inspector Javert stood still, watching as they entered: father ushered Cosette inside.

Only when the door had closed behind them she realised that father had brought them to the Rue de l'Ouest. They moved apartments frequently, and they'd stayed at Rue de l'Ouest several times, but most of their things were now at Rue Plumet, along with their housekeeper Toussaint.

“Father, I think you made a mistake. We live at Rue Plumet now,” Cosette said and giggled.

“Oh, so I have. I must be very tired, little one,” father replied, massaging his eyes. 

“Toussaint will be worried,” Cosette remarked.

“She will. You shall rest for just a moment, and I shall gather some of our things. Then we'll leave.”

“But Inspector Javert will be returning here in the morning,” Cosette said.

“No matter. I shall go and meet him tomorrow,” father said.

“But father...”

“Enough, Cosette,” father said gently but sternly. “Go and rest while I pack a few things.”

Cosette never argued. In less than an hour father had packed several things into a bag, after which they took another rental carriage. Father had the driver leave them several streets away from Rue Plumet, claiming he wanted to walk. Cosette was tired but she didn't wish to argue with her father.

That night, as she went to bed, she lay awake for a long time, remembering the horrifying moments at the hands of the thieves, and meeting the mysterious police officer, and wondered if she'd meet Inspector Javert ever again. 

 

***********************************************

 

Javert was not a man who liked to think. He was not a stupid man: he'd simply learned that thinking about things made him think of his place in the society, his miserable beginning as a son of a fortune-teller and a galley convict; two people the likes of whom he despised and detested: criminals. He'd been taught the difference between good people and bad people: the teachings had been beaten into his skin with a stick and a leather belt with a buckle, and he still bore the scars on his ugly body. There were the criminals, who broke the law and were little better than animals, and there were those who respected the law and chose to uphold it. The good people and the bad people.

He'd allied himself with the law, kept well away from any and all temptations to the other side; he'd tortured his body with hunger and his mind with abstinence and asceticism until it became a tool for the law. He was a righteous man, a tool in the massive hand of justice. To be anything else, he'd reasoned, was to fall below into that other category of people, and end up like the man who sired him and the woman who birthed him; to fall below that line was to be less than a man, less than a respectable citizen of the realm.

When Javert thought, he thought of the law. He thought of ways to apprehend criminals; of his work; of what was best for the law and thus for France. To think of anything else usually meant torture of the worst kind, remembering what his blood was, his own worthless beginnings, of how difficult it had been to get where he now was, and of how easy if would be to fall down again. In his worst nightmares he'd see himself as one of the prisoners in the galley, in chains, hungry, bleeding, dirty and worthless. An animal in the guise of a man.

Ever since he'd heard Cosette's name from her sweet lips he'd thought of her: how he wished she could be his wife, the wife of a respectable police Inspector Javert. Madame Javert, she'd be, Madame Cosette Javert, and she'd greet him every morning and allow him to kiss those sweet smiling lips every night. She'd fit to his side and perhaps give him a son who'd one day be a police inspector too and make his father proud.

When the young lawyer had come to him with information, he'd recognised the familiar address, Boulevard de l’Hôpital, house No. 50-52. When he'd seen Cosette like that, fallen on the floor with a cut on her lip, he had stopped thinking. He'd barely been able to concentrate on apprehending the ruffians of Patron-Minette, and his thoughts had been consumed by the most lovely of creatures who was finally there, finally where he could touch her hands. The feel of her lovely, small and graceful gloved hands in his large ones had been almost unbearably good, and so he'd lost focus. But then, when he'd laid eyes on the man Cosette called father and he'd realised just who he was sharing the carriage with, his world had come to a halt.

Jean Valjean, the fugitive, an escaped convict, a thief. A man who had evaded the law for years, made a mockery of justice and of Javert himself. A criminal. And father to Cosette, though not by blood. 

Cosette. The name he'd heard twice before this day: first from the lips of a dying prostitute and then read from a newspaper when she'd been taken from the Thénardiers. He'd seen Jean Valjean from a distance at the Pont d’Austerlitz years ago, while he entered the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine, and a little girl he'd had with him before they'd disappeared without a trace into the streets of Paris when he'd chased them, hoping to trap them. Javert had been so frustrated, angry and humiliated then. 

The Thénardiers, who'd captured her and her father tonight, though they used various names. They must have known: Javert had known they were lying back then, felt it with every instinct of a seasoned policeman and prison guard. 

Cosette. They'd called her The Lark. Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, though the last name was obviously a lie. She was obviously well cared-for, and Javert was absolutely certain she was innocent of whatever crimes the man she called 'father' had done. So beautiful, so very beautiful, so lovely...

And the man who cared for her was a criminal. It was Javert's duty to capture him and take him back, charge him with theft and the years of evading his punishment. It was the law, and the law was correct, right and just.

And yet there was Cosette. Javert knew without a doubt that Cosette would never care for him if he'd arrest and take away her father. Worse than that: the man seemed to be the one who cared and provided for her, and what would happen to her without him? A horrifying thought crashed through his mind as he imagined Cosette in the place of the dying prostitute: missing teeth, her hair cut, thin, sickly and then dead. He watched Cosette's life fade from her eyes, saw the blame in them, and he wanted to howl with the pain of it all. It would be his fault.

But the law was his to uphold. He'd chased after Valjean for years, dreamed of the day when the gates of the galley would slam behind Jean Valjean. He'd especially dreamt of this moment since the man had humiliated him personally: he'd gone to confess a wrongdoing to the so-called Monsieur le Maire, the respectable Monsieur Madeleine: the criminal had taken Javert's humble apologies, pretended to be a law-abiding man, and then tossed aside his mask of respectability and fled, leaving Javert embarrassed and humiliated in the eyes of his superiors. 

And Cosette depended upon this criminal. Javert could do his duty and capture the criminal, and he'd be awarded and lauded, but Cosette would detest him, and she would fall like the woman who'd given birth to her. Could he live with that?

In one hand he held the law, the justice. The other hand only had Cosette, her beauty, the way she'd smiled at him.

Javert was tortured, severely tortured.

And so he'd left, though he knew Valjean had realised that Javert had recognised him. He couldn't help it: he had to go, had to flee, to think though it pained him to do so. He now questioned himself, and it hurt. He'd be back tomorrow, early, at dawn, and then he'd have a solution. There had to be one, a reason, something to fix everything.

'You idiot!' his mind screamed at him, 'You left Cosette with a criminal!' But Valjean had cared for the girl for years: he'd raised her like a daughter, and raised her well.

The carriage took him home, but he could not sleep: he fell on his bed, restless, tired and yet unable to sleep, his head filled with the sight of her beautiful blue eyes, her lovely face, the hair that looked so silky, her tender lips, her hands, oh those tiny little feet, her body that made his body ache with need and want, his ears straining to hear her say his name again and again, and his heart tortured with lust and love and law. 

Javert rose up before dawn. He washed himself, changed into clean clothes and ate a little before he took a carriage to Cosette's home again. They certainly lived there, for he'd seen them enter with a key, watched as the porter greeted them, and watched as candles were lit on the third floor. His stomach felt tight and his throat dry as the carriage halted at Rue de l'Ouest: he'd see Cosette soon. He could not send the man to prison, could he? He couldn't do it to Cosette, could he? 

But the porter told him the owners were not at home. They'd left during the night: the man had been carrying a large bag, and they'd taken a carriage somewhere, the porter said, looking at Javert crossly, clearly unwilling to divulge information to a policeman. They'd left no other address, the man claimed. Javert demanded he be let in, and grumbling, the porter opened the door: the apartment still held some furniture and belongings, but it was obvious Valjean had once again fled and would not return.

Only this time he had taken Cosette with him. He'd taken Cosette away from Javert who could not bear the thought of going through the day without seeing her, and who'd waited all night for this moment. Somewhere Jean Valjean had Cosette.

Javert howled with unrestrained fury and rage and frustration.


	2. Chapter 2

For the next days Cosette was very depressed. Father didn't want to take her for a walk in the park, and neither did they have any rides in a carriage. She was allowed to walk in the secluded garden and she observed the people who walked along the street, but it mattered little, when the hours seemed endlessly long. She spent time with father, who still lived in the porter's lodge in the back, but she was often feeling pensive and spent hours deep in her thoughts. Father had suggested they might move abroad, and Cosette had been distraught, but again, she made no protests: her father was her hero, and though the thoughts of Inspector Javert tormented her constantly, she really knew nothing about him. He was much older: surely he was married, with children of his own?

 

***********************************************

Javert hadn't wasted his time. He knew that Valjean would try to run for it: he'd take Cosette with him, and they'd disappear, quite possibly forever. He roamed the city without nary a pause: he questioned police officers, carriage drivers, shopkeepers, the gendarmes.

It took him almost a full day to interview carriage drivers until he found the one who'd driven Valjean and Cosette that night: the terrified man had told him which part of the city he'd left them into. Javert roamed the streets and questioned people, and finally a lancer from the regimental barracks at Rue de Babylone mentioned he'd seen a girl who fit the description: she'd been behind a large gate at Rue Plumet. Javert had refused to lie to them, for he found lying disgusting and immoral: he'd let them understand he was searching for a witness to a crime, which was true, although his motives were more complicated, and the lancer pointed him to Rue Plumet and to a certain rococo fence, behind which the lancers said lived a very pretty creature in a badly kept, wild garden. 

And thus, three days after the incident, Inspector Javert arrived to the gate at Rue Plumet and peered through the bars into the wild garden, which was at that current moment empty. He stood there for well over an hour, frustrated and nervous, unwilling to depart and yet concerned he'd been made a fool. 

He'd already become anxious when his heart lurched: Cosette had appeared in the garden, strolling quietly there. It was winter, and she was dressed in a thick woollen cloak, a hat framing her beautiful face, but Javert knew it was her. Fighting his hammering heart and this dry throat he called to her, “Mademoiselle Fauchelevent!”

She turned to him, and joy lit up her face. It was like the break of dawn, and for a while he lost the ability to breathe as the lovely angel smiled at him with joy. He'd never received a smile like that; nobody had been so glad to see him before.

“Inspector Javert!” she said happily, approaching the gate, and she offered him her hand through the metal bars. Javert took her hand into his own and gently kissed it, keeping it in his when he'd finished, though it must have looked very strange to anyone: a man and a woman standing on two sides of a gate with her hand thrust through it. Once again his eyes found hers, and this time there were questions in her eyes, and answers to questions he did not know how to ask. There was warmth, a hint of a promise, perhaps?

“Are you here to talk to father?” she asked, and Javert had to clear his throat.

“Ah, yes, I think it's best I speak with him. Is he home?”

“Yes, of course. This gate is locked and father had the key, but there's another, hidden gate at Rue de Babylone. It is a bit difficult to find, I'll open it for you, if you would kindly come to Rue de Babylone?” she requested politely, pulling her hand away slowly, and Javert relinquished it reluctantly. She advised him where to go, smiled and walked towards the other side of the garden, while Javert quickly walked over to Rue de Babylone, where he found Cosette standing behind the railing. She opened a well-hidden gate for him, and Javert thanked her, entering the wild garden, leading his horse with him. He tied the horse into a sturdy branch of a tree. 

Alone, together with this marvellous, most alluring woman he felt like he was living in a dream, and he sorely wanted to press his lips to hers, something he'd never done before, nor had he wanted to: not before he'd seen Cosette for the first time.

“This way, monsieur,” she said, guiding him through the garden and into a small, humble building at the back, a sort of a porter’s lodge. “Father prefers to live here instead of the pavilion,” she said by way of explanation. “He lives very modestly, while he has me and our servant live in comfort. He's a very humble and virtuous man.” Javert merely nodded, unwilling to discuss Jean Valjean's virtues, or lack of them. 

Cosette knocked on the door and entered before she received a permission to enter: her way of moving expressed her complete confidence in her welcome. The insides of the porter's lodge were, indeed, very humble and modest: if this was indeed a man who gave alms for the poor, he did not live like a rich man, despite providing well for the girl. 

“Father? You have a visitor,” Cosette called, and Javert entered a room after Cosette, coming face to face with Jean Valjean, who'd been sitting in a straw chair by the unlit fire. The room felt chilly and was just as Spartan as Javert's own rooms were: for even though Javert was a high-ranking officer, he cared very little for the comforts of his body. 

Valjean had blanched at the sight of Javert, and his hands squeezed the book he'd been reading. Javert feared he might try to hit him with the book and flee, and so he kept his position between the man and the door. Unaware of the tension between the men, Cosette addressed Valjean: “Father, Inspector Javert has come to see you.”

“I see, Cosette. Would you mind if I speak alone with the inspector? It is best you do not get upset while we discuss the unfortunate events that occurred,” Valjean said to Cosette, who looked uncertain. “Would you go and ask Toussaint to prepare us a light meal?”

“Of course, father,” she replied obediently, and smiled for Javert in a way that made his heart bounce painfully, before she left and closed the door behind her. Valjean listened to her departing footsteps before he sighed. 

“You've come to arrest me then?”

“No.”

Valjean seemed quite stunned.

“Yet you know who I am.”

“I do,” Javert admitted.

“And yet...”

“Jean Valjean is dead,” Javert said. “He died years ago, according to official reports, on a ship called The Orion. And if I were to take Monsieur Fauchelevent away, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent would loose the man who has raised her and provided for her. She'd be defenceless and alone.”

“Yes, she would.”

“I cannot allow that to happen. She hasn't broken the law. She is... innocent. Without fault, and she cannot be left alone. I've sworn to uphold the law. And now...” Javert folded his hands behind his back, his usually rigid and straight posture slouched and tormented. “I remembered her name. It took me a while to connect it, but I do remember when I heard her name the first time. What I saw back then... I cannot allow that to happen to her. Not her. Even if...” Javert trailed off.

“Would you like to sit, then?” Valjean suggested, and Javert sat in one of the straw chairs, while his host sat down on the other. 

“You care for her,” Valjean said, his voice sounding distant, slightly pained.

“I... yes.”

It was a painful admittance. He'd been forced to admit it and more when he'd realised she wasn't where he'd left her and the convict she called her father. He'd spent hours in desperate pursuit, interviewing carriage drivers, searching for clues, and the though had hammered in his mind until he'd been forced to face the words 'I love her'. The words 'I love her' had pressed inside his head as he'd searched for her, tormented his mind when he'd gone to bed late at night, and torn themselves from his mouth when he'd woken up from a fervent dream as his pleasure crashed through his body and soiled his night shirt, he'd gasped them, along with her name, when he came down from the haze of pleasure and torment. 

“And you wish...?”

“I wish to court her,” Javert said firmly.

Valjean closed his eyes, as if the thought pained her. “Even though you know who her mother was? And who raised her?”

“Even then.”

“She's young. Sixteen.”

“I thought as much.”

“I won't sell her to you,” Valjean said firmly. “I won't force her to...”

“Nor will I,” Javert interrupted angrily. “I will only court her if she'll allow it. Our... arrangement, agreement, will not be disclosed to her. I don't want her to go through any pain or shame.”

“And what of your shame, courting the daughter of a convict?”

“She's more important for me.”

“I see.”

Valjean was silent for a long moment, lost in his thoughts. 

“If she agrees, so shall I. You may escort her to church on Sunday. We go to Église Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, and after the sermon we give alms to the poor and infirm. I will be your chaperone.”

“I would also take her to walk. Jardin du Luxembourg, perhaps.”

“Yes. I shall chaperone on those occasions as well. Our servant, Toussaint, can chaperone at home, but she's elderly and unfit to move about very much.”

“Fine,” Javert replied. 

“Only if she agrees,” Valjean added.

“Yes. And Fauchelevent... I know you were planning to run again. Do not try to deny it,” Javert said, looking at him sharply. “You tried fleeing here and you'd have left Paris soon. If you know what's good for you, do not try that. I will find you and make you regret it. If you think I was relentless when I was hunting for an escaped convict called Valjean, you have no idea how I'll be if you try take her away.”

Valjean nodded, looking grave. 

“I also think we both need to watch for her. We caught several members of Patron-Minette, but some known members weren't there, and at least a one of the worst managed to flee. He's called Montparnasse. He's one of the most dangerous and violent men of Patron-Minette. He's young and considered very beautiful. A dandy, but he's killed many a man. There are others on the loose, though none as dangerous as Montparnasse. He'll be a threat to you... to her.”

“The others are in prison, then?”

“Oh yes. Thénardier, his wife and his daughters. Bigrenaille, Brujon, Deux-Milliards, Guelemer, Babet, Claquesous... You recognised the Thénardiers?”

“Yes. Pitiful now, really. Very sad. I feel so very sorry for the girls, especially.”

“Pity for criminals is pity wasted. They've made their own choices and earned their fate.”

“I doubt you can honestly say that about the girls.”

“They're already criminals,” Javert said calmly. “The law applies to everyone. You took Cos... Mademoiselle Fauchelevent away from them?”

“Yes. I had a letter from her mother. They'd kept her as a servant, though she'd sent her earnings for her upkeep, and they had her do the dirtiest, most demeaning tasks. They hurt her badly, and she was lonely and frightened. They demanded money for what Fantine owed them: she'd owed them approximately thirty-five francs, but in the end they demanded fifteen hundred francs, which I gave them. Thénardier ran after us and tried to demand more but dared not attack me: I had a cudgel with me, you see, and the road was dark. I wouldn't have killed him: I'm not a killer, whatever you may think of me, Monsieur l'Inspecteur, but the man judged me by what he might have done, and...”

Valjean stopped and listened: Javert, too, heard footsteps, as Cosette and an elderly servant arrived, carrying trays of food, a bottle of wine and two glasses. Javert looked at her: she kept her eyes down, but her face was slightly blushed.

“Cosette,” Valjean said, “remain behind, if you please. Thank you, Toussaint,” he added to the servant, who curtseyed and departed after setting down the wine and the glasses for the two men.

“Cosette,” Valjean said, “Inspector Javert has asked for a permission to court you. Would you accept his courtship?”

It was Javert's turn to keep his eyes down: at that moment the inspector feared rejection more than he'd feared anything in a long, long time. 

He need not have feared, for Cosette's voice was filled with joy as she replied a bright “yes!”. Javert's head snapped up, his heart filling with wonder, amazement and thrill as he looked upon this most beautiful of maidens who'd given a permission of courtship to an older, ugly and lonely man. 

 

***********************************************

 

That day Cosette bade good evening to her suitor, the man she'd been dreaming about for over a year. She felt giddy, cheery, nervous and happy: she did not notice her father feeling uneasy. Her suitor, the impressive Inspector Javert, had once again held her hand and kissed it like a gentleman: his lips a bit above her skin, of course, as polite manners and propriety demanded, but it was a gentle and respectful gesture. 

The next day Inspector Javert arrived to take her for a walk in Champ de Mars, leaving his horse in their garden while they rode a carriage to the park. Cosette sat in the carriage between father and the inspector: there was unrest in the streets, Inspector Javert said, and it was safer for her to travel by carriage. Inspector Javert held her hand quietly but gently, while father, who was their chaperone, looked the other way. 

At the park father walked dozen steps behind Javert and Cosette: she had her hand safely tucked on the arm of the dashing policeman, who walked next to her, his back straight, often turning to take a look at her. They spoke very little: Cosette felt very shy, and though the inspector was much older, he seemed equally unused to walking with a woman. It had been a relief to know he wasn't more experienced than she was at this.

Inspector Javert was an impressive man. He seemed to personify reliability and justice: his face and countenance sometimes seemed almost merciless, but Cosette also loved the way he looked at her. He was powerful and could seem frightening at times, at least by the reactions of the people passing them by, but he'd never been cruel or unjust to her. 

“My name is really Euphrasie,” she told him during their first walk. 

“Not Cosette, then?” 

“No, Cosette is a very ugly name that was given to me when I was a little thing. But my real name is Euphrasie. Do you like that name—Euphrasie?” 

“Yes. But I like them both.”

“Do you like Cosette better than Euphrasie?” 

“Yes, perhaps.”

“Then call me Cosette,” she said, and he used his right hand to caress her hand that was tucked at the crook of his arm.

He took her walking almost every day: when he could not, he'd arrive to their house and have a light meal with her and her father, or simply sit in the parlour, with Toussaint acting as chaperone. On Sundays he escorted her to mass at Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, after which Cosette and father traditionally gave alms to the poor. The beggars were very afraid of the harsh-looking inspector, but Cosette coaxed him to join them: they received some very strange looks from the beggars and especially the gamins refused to come close to him. 

It took them a week and half before they finally stole their first kiss: Toussaint had gone to bring them food. Cosette stood by the window, looking outside, and Javert was standing next to her. They turned at the same moment, and then their lips met. It was a shy, gentle and tender kiss, and they had to separate when Toussaint returned with bread, cheese and wine, but there was a new light in his eyes after the first kiss. One kiss became two a few days later, and during the third kiss he held her to his chest and whispered her first name gently. They were stolen precious seconds and minutes in the temporary absence of a chaperone, and each time the harsh and strict Inspector Javert seemed to grow softer.

Cosette had no idea why her body reacted the way it did to his kisses and caresses: she felt so warm, then hot, and she often woke up feeling a slight ache between her legs, and slickness that wasn't caused by her monthly predicament: the nuns had spoken about the monthly blood, but she had no idea how to react to the new aches and demands the inspector caused in her. She tried to ask Toussaint about it, but the old servant stuttered very badly and admonished her to not speak of it. 

For six months Inspector Javert visited her almost every day. When his work forced him to stay away, Cosette missed him dearly. Father, luckily, still took her to visit the sick and the infirm like they'd done for years: they took alms, bread and clothes and comforted the sickly and elderly. For Inspector Javert these visits were not as easy as for Cosette and her father, and so Cosette spent quite a lot of time with her father, who'd slowly gotten used to the inspector, although Cosette was certain she saw father looking at him with a concerned expression on his face more than once. 

Cosette knew she'd fallen in love with Inspector Javert very quickly. His smallest touch made her happy, she missed him while he was away, and dreamt of him while she slept. The sight of him as he rode his fine horse and dismounted made her giddy. They spoke more as time went by. She remembered very little of her childhood before the convent at Rue de Petit-Picpus: simply some flashes of forest and being hungry and tired. She spoke of the nuns, of the other girls raised there, and how father and her uncle Fauchelevent had tended the gardens until uncle Fauchelevent died. Javert had raised his eyebrows when he'd heard the convent mentioned, but only said he'd heard of it and walked by it on several occasions. It made Cosette happy: to think that they might have been close to each other, although unaware of each other, years ago. 

He spoke very little of his own childhood or life before he'd become a policeman: he spoke of serving the law, his ambitions of rising in the ranks, and how he'd worked to achieve these goals. He briefly mentioned being stationed at Montreuil-sur-Mer in the past, though it hadn't apparently been a happy time. He no longer had parents, and he'd never had any siblings: he'd been alone in the world, and he came of humble origins, something he was quite ashamed of. Cosette at least had her father: Cosette promised she'd be there for Javert, and the man smiled that small, slightly lopsided smile that barely touched the corners of his thin lips but made his usually gimlet eyes very soft and gentle.

Six months after Inspector Javer had begun courting her, he became slightly distracted, and occasionally felt quite agitated. He spent some time speaking alone with Cosette's father, which was unusual: the two men tolerated each other but had not been friendly, as such. Three days after this event he felt extremely agitated and nervous, and instead of taking her to a park they stayed at home. The inspector was quiet, until a moment later he quite suddenly and abruptly proposed to her, asking her to become his wife.

It wasn't what Cosette had expected: she'd thought she'd upset him, done or said something terribly childish or foolish and driven him away. Unable to speak she could only nod and smile at him happily, as relief seemed to flood his usually harsh face, and he slipped a small and dainty ring into her finger. Father and Toussaint had helped him with the size so he could have a goldsmith make it for her. It was a truly beautiful ring. Father was very serious but offered his congratulations, and Toussaint stuttered her well-wishes quietly as she served a celebratory meal for her, father and Javert.

She and Javert were now allowed more time alone, without a constant chaperone, and they kissed more frequently. He did it with more confidence these days, often smiling against her lips, pecking her lips with small gently kisses or caressing her lips with his languidly. He'd confessed he'd never kissed or been kissed before, but they learned it together, and they both enjoyed it greatly. 

They'd have a relatively long engagement, but they'd marry in the summer. Toussaint relented and spoke to her of wife's duties in the bedchamber. It was a painfully awkward and short conversation. Toussaint, a widow whose children had all died at birth, spoke shortly of the pain, but told Cosette that what happened between a man and his wife in their bed was acceptable in the face of God, though it would have been sin out of wedlock. Cosette knew men used prostitutes, although she was absolutely certain that father never did: she was slightly afraid of what was to come, but she also waited for the day she'd be Madame Javert.

 

***********************************************

“I will be searching for a house,” Javert said, as he sipped his wine. He was alone with Valjean... or Fauchelevent, as he tried to think of the man now. Slipping his name in the wrong place would be critical, and Javert had thought of how much he was endangering his own position with attachment to Cosette and the man who raised her. Still, his heart was helpless in her hands, and he knew he could do nothing but lay his heart and soul at her feet, even if it meant betraying his quest to bring this fugitive to justice.

He still resented Valjean, and he was certain he always would: a criminal was always a criminal to the core. But this man, despite being wealthy, preferred to live just as humbly as Javert himself, offering every comfort to his daughter. Despite lavishing her with presents, he'd raised a fine and virtuous young woman filled with compassion, although Javert personally thought that the poor would appreciate her charity very little, for criminals were abundant among the lowest class.

“Indeed?” Valjean asked.

“Yes. I will be trying to find one close to this place.”

“I would have thought you'd want to take her as far away from me as possible,” Valjean said quietly, and Javert heard the traces of bitterness lacing his voice.

“I have many enemies, Fauchelevent, and my duties carry a great risk of injury or death. I've no illusions of that. If something were to happen to me, Cosette will need you. For all that you are, I know that you would never hurt or harm her.” Javert sipped his wine again, seeing that Valjean had stopped and raised his head to look at him. 

A long moment of silence ended when Valjean sighed and said, “Indeed. I will always do my best to protect her.”

“She'll also benefit of your company when I work,” Javert added. 

“I... thank you, Monsieur l'Inspecteur,” Valjean said quietly.

“On that note, I believe you should know they released Thénardier's daughters — or Jondrette's, the name they also used frequently.”

“They used the name Fabantou to me.”

Javert snorted with amusement. 

“Dramatic artist,” Valjean added. 

“A very dramatic artist indeed!”

A thoughtful (if slightly amused) silence ensued, after which Javert continued, “I went to oversee girls released from the Madelonettes. Their parents are still behind bars, but there are many members of Patron-Minette at large, and I've no doubt that Montparnasse will contact the girls. They'll be seeking you out for revenge and profit. I warned the elder girl... Éponine, she was called... that if they'd try to attack you or your daughter in any way, I'd personally come after them, and make sure they'd regret ever setting eyes on you.”

“You're endangering yourself,” Valjean remarked.

“Not for you,” Javert snapped. “For Cosette. Always for Cosette.”

“I know. I do everything for her as well,” Valjean said quietly. “She is everything to me.”

Javert nodded quietly.

 

***********************************************

Intermission: Marius & Éponine 

 

“You went to see your grandfather? About me? Are you serious?”

“I did. He showed great disrespect for you, so I left.”

“Disrespect?”

“He told me I should make you my mistress, if even that. I told him what I thought of him and left.”

“Your mistress?”

“Yes! Can you believe the nerve of that man, Éponine? ...Why are you laughing?”

“And you call that disrespect? Ha! The swine who calls himself my father calls me much worse than that! A soul can't take offence to every little thing, can it?”

“Little! He offended you!”

“If he won't hit me or you, he's plenty better than living in holes like we do. Go back and talk to him!”

“But Éponine...”

 

***********************************************

 

It had taken whole three days of escorting Mademoiselle Fauchelevent for her walks until the word of it got around to the stations around Paris. Inspector Javert tolerated no disrespect and had never invited familiarity from those who worked for him, but the men were polite in their curious inquiries, and Javert was in too good a mood to try and hide it, and so he replied that yes, he was, in fact, courting a beautiful young lady, who had agreed to a formal courtship, and that her father had agreed upon it as well. 

News spread fast: several men showed him new respect for managing to secure the interest and affections of a beautiful young maiden. The policemen and the gendarmes who'd participated in the raid to the Gorbeau house had seen her and spread the word of how utterly lovely she'd been, and Javert, who detested and abhorred lying, was not forced to lie: he could, in fact, testify he hadn't known her before that day. He'd been the one to head the rescue mission, the one who'd helped the maiden up from the floor and saved her, and nobody really asked about her father, so much they concentrated on her beauty and the sheer wonder of Inspector Javert, aged 52, courting a girl of sixteen, though she'd quite soon be seventeen, certainly before they'd marry. Monsieur and Mademoiselle Fauchelevent's names were in the official report as witnesses and intended victims to a crime: nobody asked inconvenient questions about their origins. 

When his engagement to Mademoiselle Fauchelevent was announced, M. Gisquet, the Prefect of Police, had called Javert to his office to personally congratulate him. Javert had never particularly liked Gisquet: then again, he'd never disliked him either. Theirs was a completely professional relationships, as Javert had dedicated his entire life to law and his career. The Prefect had always been a supportive character, but now the portly man was beaming with pride. 

“Congratulations, Javert!” Gisquet had nearly bellowed: he was aged and his hearing wasn't what it had once been. “Marriage does wonders to a man. Euphrasie, you said her name was?”

“Yes, sir,” Javert replied calmly.

“Oh, well done indeed! A young wife can keep a husband feeling young, and a man in an important position needs a good wife to come home to. I have been very happy with my Mathilde for ten years...” Gisquet droned on. 

The spring wore on, and unrest spread in the streets of Paris. The country had endured several years of weak harvests, which caused food shortages and rising prices for food: the poor were starving and the amount of hungry mouths and empty stomachs grew every day. Cholera broke out all over the country, and people began to die first by the hundreds, then thousands; Jewish families, often blamed for outbreaks of disease, departed or isolated themselves into small communities, and the radical opposition blamed the government for poisoning the wells, although the Jews were usually blamed for this. Hungry people afraid of death, the dying flocked the streets, and the amount of crimes increased. Javert found himself working harder than before, trying to bring down those who used the opportunity to break the law. The amount of thefts seemed to increase daily; there were robberies, cases of blackmail and extortion, even downright manslaughters when people scrambled for food and wine. 

He began to escort Cosette and her father every time they went to give alms and visit the sick: he did so to protect her, and he knew that Valjean knew his reasons and appreciated it. He knew Valjean was as strong as an ox, but two men could protect her better than just one, and his presence kept the people at bay, out of fear if not out of respect. Valjean was also never armed, while Javert took to carrying two pistols at all times. 

“Babet, Brujon, Guelemer, and Thénardier have managed to escape from La Force yesterday,” Javert said quietly to Valjean, as Cosette, a few paces away from them, spoke gently to a sobbing woman and her starved child, offering them bread. “Madame Thénardier is dead, but the girls and Montparnasse must have assisted in the escape.”

“They'll come after us, then?” Valjean asked with an equally quiet voice.

“Perhaps not. The word has spread that she is under my protection. My name is worth something, and they do fear me. I will, however, increase the patrols around your home.”

“There is no need. The lancers...”

“Are too busy posturing,” Javert interrupted. “Do not argue with me, Val... Fauchelevent. She is everything, and I want her protected.”

“I know, and I understand.”

“Does he now,” Javert muttered into his cravat, as was his wont. Valjean, wisely, chose to remain silent.

“Sooner or later the unrest will break out,” Javert continued. “I'll be called to put it down, along with the rest of the law enforcement and militia. Hundreds will die before it is over. Right now Paris is like a barrel of gunpowder waiting for a spark.”

“Cosette will be beside herself with worry for you.”

Javert nodded. “I want you to keep her safe. If necessary, I want you to take her away from Paris. If the riots break out where you live...”

“We have two other apartments,” Valjean confessed.

“Ah.” Javert looked at him with piercing eyes. “I believe I've seen one?” When Valjean nodded, he added, “I expect you to give me the address to the other one, as well as the place where you'll take her if you're forced to flee Paris. If the people will rebel, we will cut them down, but I don't want a hair on her head harmed.”

“I understand. The other address... I will give it to you later. Not here, not now.”

“Yes.”

 

***********************************************

Inspector Javert had managed to buy them their own house quite close to their house at Rue Plumet, only two streets away. Cosette was beside herself with joy: she did not like the thought of having to leave her father all alone with Toussaint, but now she'd be able to visit father daily, or father would visit them in their home. She asked countless questions until Javert rolled his eyes and took her to see their new home: it was still unfurnished and some craftsmen had been hired to fix it to a pristine condition, but it was large enough for Cosette, Javert, Javert's manservant and the maid they'd have to hire: Javert, a bachelor, had managed with his manservant, an old and retired cavalryman with a limp from an old war wound but who had been capable of cooking and taking care of his modest household. 

Their new home had small chambers for both the servants; a bedroom for Cosette and another for Javert, separated only by a small door; a room that might be used as a nursery (though the thought made Cosette blush), as well as parlour, a dining room, an entrance hall and a kitchen. It had a small garden, well-tended with a small vegetable patch, although it was much smaller than the garden at Rue Plumet: the garden was surrounded by a high fence, but every vegetable had been pulled off the ground and stolen, and Javert said he was quite certain that it'd be a struggle to keep the starving thieves from stealing the vegetables they'd plant before they had time to harvest them, unless the servants kept a close eye on them: the presence of even the most feared of policemen was a mere slight deterrent when people were starving to death. They could only hope the next harvest would yield a better crops and the the prices would come down. Cosette truly felt terrible for the starving people in the streets. The garden also had a small carriage shed, an outhouse and a small stable for two horses, so Javert wouldn't have to leave his steed into the police stables.

They kissed there, in the empty parlour, and Javert's hands caressed her sides in a way that made her moan in delight. His breath hitched, and his kisses deepened, becoming faster, his hands touching and petting her sides and then her back, pulling her body flush with his. Cosette, too, felt her breath quicken, and the sweet ache between her legs returned: his lips were very soft, and his mouth tasted so sweet, and his body was so gentle and fierce against hers, giving and demanding. she could feel a strange throb against her belly when he pushed himself against her, and he moaned slighty, before he gently pushed them apart. 

His breath was rapid and he almost panted, his thin lips swollen from her kisses. Cosette's right hand had caressed his hair so it was slightly ruffled, and if he'd been wearing his hat, it probably would have fallen at some point. His eyes were so dark and heated it took her breath away.

“Oh Cosette,” he moaned, sounding almost pained, “soon, very soon, my love, my treasure. Not yet, but soon we'll be together, you'll be mine, my love.” He kissed her lips again, and clearly had to struggle to keep himself from pulling her back to him. “I'm desperate for your touch, but I cannot dishonour you.”

“You won't,” she said, raising her face for yet another kiss, hoping they wouldn't have to stop, “because it's an honour to be with you.”

“Sweet Cosette, you sorely tempt me,” he sighed and allowed her to caress his sideburns with her hand, leaning to her touch and closing his eyes for a moment. “Come, I'll take you back home.”


	3. Chapter 3

They'd agreed to wed in August: there would be no lavish wedding, no banquets or pompous ceremonies: a drop in the Registrar's office and then a blessing in a church. It would have felt perverse when people were hungry and starving in the streets. Truthfully Javert had enough on his mind as it were: there had been some minor scuffles between the supporters of the current regime, the Legitimists and the republicans. Some of these scuffles were handled by the palace militia or gendarmes, but Javert knew there were worse times ahead. High prices of food had caused major fights between buyers and vendors, and the patrols were already spread thin. Many of his men had fallen ill with cholera, and many more had sick or starving relatives.

In March Prime Minister Perier had visited some cholera patients with his Royal Highness Ferdinand Philippe, Duke of Orléans: he'd fallen ill of the cursed disease, which some said was caused by Miasmas, and died in April. Javert had feared for trouble during the state funeral, but the fears were unfounded. 

When General Lamarque, a hero of the Napoleonic wars and a much-loved reformer, fell ill of cholera, Javert and his superiors were quite certain there would be trouble if he were to die. When Lamarque's health continued to decline, Javert was summoned to see Prefect of Police, Gisquet. Javert knew at once he'd have a special assignment.

“If the people riot during or after the funeral, they'll barricade themselves to various locations,” Gisquet said. “We're gathering our bravest, most experienced and intelligent men and sending you in as our agents. You and others like you are to infiltrate the barricades. You are to find out who they are, how they're armed, how much ammunition they have, and most importantly, identify the leaders so they can be sentenced appropriately.”

'Agents,' he'd said, and Javert knew he meant 'spies'. It would be an extremely dangerous task, for a captured spy would be killed without mercy: they'd ask for men who were brave... and unmarried, with no children or wives depending on them. He, while engaged to be married, had no wife or children yet, and no elderly parents to support either. But Javert was no coward, and he had a duty to serve the law. Cosette would grieve him, but she was young, and she had her father.

“Yes, sir.”

“You are to don a civilian attire: dress up as a worker to fit in. I'll write evidence of assignment in order for you to pass through our lines when your mission is complete, or if your position gets compromised.”

“Understood.”

“Good man.”

That evening he spoke of the matter to Cosette. He'd have liked to delay the news, but they couldn't know if or when General Lamarque would possibly die: he might just recover, there was a distinct possibility the riots would break out when the news of the general's death would spread, although they believed it was much more likely the republicans would use the funeral to incite trouble. Cosette was deeply disturbed, and tears glistened in her eyes: she burrowed into his chest, pressing her ear on him to hear his heartbeat and shivered. 

“Do not worry, sweet Cosette,” he told her, “I've much experience, and I will be careful. I will come back to you.”

“Can't they send someone else?” 

“There are worse choices than me. Most of the others have people depending on them. They have elderly parents to support, children, wives... If the worst comes to pass, you still have your father.”

“But I wouldn't have you.”

“You're very young. You'd find some young man,” he said, though the words tasted like bile in his mouth.

“It wouldn't be the same. I don't want a young man. Just you.”

“My sweet Cosette. I'll be careful, just for you,” he said, kissing her forehead.

That night he went home and wrote up a will, leaving everything to Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent, also known by the name of Cosette, daughter of one Ultime Fauchelevent and betrothed of Police Inspector Javert. That night he went to bed and feared he might not live to experience his wedding night and the chance to bury himself deep inside his lovely, warm bride. 

 

***********************************************

News of General Jean Lamarque's death came on the 1st of July. Father had heard it when he'd been out to buy bread: he looked very serious and concerned. Inspector Javert had sworn Cosette to secrecy of his mission to spy on the rebels if a rebellion began: he'd also spoken with father privately, and both men had looked very serious and grim when they'd returned from father's rooms in the porter's lodge. 

Cosette was almost beside herself with worry. They hadn't gone for a walk for some time now, and Cosette walked about in the garden daily: now she was unable to concentrate on anything. She prayed several times for Javert's safe return and spent hours in the garden, looking into the street and listening for any sounds of a fight, seeing if the passers-by were reacting ominously.

The lancers were patrolling in the streets, and patrols were passing by their gate frequently on their way. Cosette also saw two patrols of gendarmes and several police patrols: the policemen greeted her politely, for they knew she was betrothed to Inspector Javert. She asked them politely through the gate if they'd heard anything: there had been rumours of a revolt in planning, of people arming themselves with whatever they could and preparing for a revolt, but so far as they knew, nothing yet had happened. 

That evening, when Inspector Javert rode to greet her, she practically flew to his arms, barely able to wait until he'd dismounted off his steed, and kissed him desperately, such was her relief of seeing her future husband again. He was tired and arrived later than usual, but took her gently to his arms and held her, allowing her to draw comfort. Despite working late, he looked marvellous in his fine uniform, in his shining boots and leather gloves, and his body was warm and wonderful. They left the horse to feed on the grass and slowly walked inside. 

“I don't think there will be anything major until the funeral,” Javert said quietly after Toussaint had served them the meal and left Cosette, her father and Javert to dine. “It'll be on the fifth. A military procession. You must not attend it. Stay home, do not walk into the streets.”

“Can you send us a word when it begins?”

He shook his head. “Probably not. Every man will be needed there. I will do what I can, Cosette, but I cannot make such promises. I do promise I'll come back to you when it's all over.”

 

***********************************************

 

Javert cursed internally, though he kept his countenance impassive: his cover had been blown before he could leave. A blasted gamin had recognised him and so here he was, trussed up and tied and awaiting for his death at the barricade of Rue de la Chanvrerie.

He'd joined a crowd near the Rue des Billettes, dressed like a civilian, aware that though an officer was keeping a discreet eye on him from a distance, they wouldn't be able to help him once he entered a barricade: he'd be alone. He'd helped build a barricade at Rue de la Chanvreri, next to a public-house called _Corinthe_. He'd then entered the public-house and sat down to observe, carrying a rifle, wanting to remember as many faces and names as possible, to see who was in charge, ready to testify if need be, if any of these fools were to escape when the barricade would inevitably fall. He was to see who supplied weapons, how many pistols and rifles they had, and perhaps use the opportunity to sabotage their supply of gunpowder: if they could not return fire, more of them could be caught alive and brought to justice. A full-blown fight would cost lives of soldiers and policemen, and a convict would serve the state in accordance to law.

If only that blasted gamin hadn't recognised him. One of their leaders had approached him, and from the expression on his face Javert immediately realised that the man knew: he did not lie, for Javert would never sink so low as to lie in a feeble attempt to save his hide, and it hadn't taken five men long to throw him down and search his pockets. They'd found his identity card and his written orders from the Prefect of Police. 

Five men it took to throw down Inspector Javert, he thought with what little satisfaction he could muster, although his death sentence was delivered by one little boy with a few revealing words. He'd asked them to kill him straight away, but they'd left him to wait, aware that waiting for death was worse than dying for a man like him. 

And so he awaited and thought of Cosette, sweet little Cosette. He'd ridden to her home every day, though he'd been so very tired and concerned, and she'd always been waiting for him in the garden of Rue Plumet, surrounded by the intoxicating scent of flowers, then shivering in his arms as he buried his nose into her hair and whispered endearments that very few people would believe coming from the ugly, old and harsh Inspector Javert. 

Now, they'd have no wedding, no wedding night would come for them, and he'd die here, while Cosette would mourn and eventually marry another man. They'd meet again one day in heaven, but she'd been another man's wife then, and would he be allowed to love her in any way, in the kingdom of God? Javert was a true Catholic and feared it might not be moral. 

The battle was raging outside, and Javert observed the young men — mere boys, really — carry in the corpse of a fallen, dead man. One of the leaders, addressed as Enjolras, told Javert, “It will be your turn presently!”

Javert did not flinch. Death was his destiny, and he'd give them no satisfaction.

Time rolled on: there were sounds of severe fighting outside: screams, howls of pain and anger, crashes, pistols and rifles firing, and shouts indicating that a bullet had found a target. Javert waited and listened.

After a while, as the fighting died down momentarily, he heard them suggest they might trade him for their friend who'd been captured, but soon shouts and then a firing shot of a pistol silenced them. They knew their captured friend had been executed, and the leader, Enjolras, turned to him and told him: “Your friends have just shot you.” 

And he could do nothing but wait.

 

***********************************************

 

Jean Valjean observed his beloved little Cosette as she paced nervously. The streets around Rue Plumet were always quiet, but now the silence from all the other streets was overwhelming. No sounds of carriages or steeds could be heard from any distance: no human voices could be heard, although people would normally have been going about their business. The lancers had mostly left their garrison, the patrols of gendarmes, policemen, lancers and dragoons were large and moved at a brisk pace towards their intended targets. Jean had heard gunshots from a distance: Cosette heard it too, and every time she jumped a little and her eyes grew wider: she knew that any one of those bullets may have been one aimed for Javert. 

He'd found her praying thrice today: he hadn't interrupted her prayers, of course, but felt sick to his heart over how much worry Javert had caused his little girl. Little Cosette, it wasn't such a long time ago when she had still been playing with her doll, when she'd curled up in his lap to sleep: just a bundle of bones, skin, hunger and lack of affection. How he'd seem her smile and then laugh the very first time, how she'd stopped being afraid of Madame Thénardier: and how he'd been forced to lie to her to keep her quiet, threaten that Madame Thénardier was coming for her when Javert himself had chased them through the streets until they'd landed in the convent of Petit-Picpus, with Benedictines of the Perpetual Adoration. His stubborn and selfish mind kept telling him that Javert would have thrust the little girl into the streets to fend for herself and taken Jean Valjean back to prison without hesitation; how, now, did that very man claim the right to love Cosette enough to propose marriage to her? He'd been the one to hurt her mother, Fantine, when she lay on her death-bed, telling her not to expect her daughter. Cruel, merciless, cold had been Javert: why was this man now staring at his Cosette with love?

But his conscience, which seemed to speak with the voice of the late Bishop of Digne, Monseigneur Bienvenu himself, told him to look at how Javert looked at Cosette, and how Cosette looked at Javert: and that look was nothing if not adoration and love. Truly, Javert seemed a better man because of Cosette. If a man could love a woman raised by a convict, the daughter of a prostitute, and had given up his conviction to deliver his sworn enemy Valjean to the back to the galleys where he'd toiled and where he'd thought he'd die... if a man could change so much, who was Jean Valjean to deny that love?

Javert was much older than Cosette, that Jean himself had to admit, but he himself was over a decade older than Javert, and such age differences were hardly unheard of.

The day wore on, and Cosette lingered in front of a window. She barely ate, her eyes straying to the closest window while they sat, and every sound Toussaint made had her head jerk up before she realised that nobody was coming. The time when Javert usually arrived came and went, but the man did not arrive, and Cosette remained in the garden where she'd gone half an hour before the time Javert usually arrived. 

Jean Valjean joined his daughter there, sat next to her on the stone bench and helped her wait. Once they heard the sound of hooves on the cobblestones, but the sound went by and nobody arrived. Jean realised Cosette was praying, and he sent his prayers to join hers.

It was getting dark when they heard the sounds of several approaching horses, and three policemen in uniforms approached. Cosette let out a delighted and relieved sob, but it turned into a horrified whimper when she saw their uniforms and horses and realised that none of them was Javert. The men rode to their gate and dismounted while Cosette approached them: Jean supported her by the arm.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent?” inquired one of them, the oldest of the three. When Jean nodded in acquiescence and introduced himself as M. Ultime Fauchelevent, he introduced himself: “I am Officer Lefavre, and these are Officers Brunelle and Marine. We bring news of Inspector Javert.”

“Is he all right? Is he alive?” Cosette whispered desperately.

“Cosette,” Jean chided her gently, “we shall invite the officers inside. They look weary and are undoubtedly hungry and tired.” The young men definitely looked like they hadn't rested for quite some time, and at the mention of hunger Jean was certain he heard a stomach growl: Officer Marine looked slightly sheepish, but they all looked very grave, and Jean did not wish her daughter to receive bad news there, in the garden: he had already pulled the key to the gate from his pocket and opened the massive lock, opening the gate for the men and their horses. The gate creaked with rust, for Inspector Javert usually used the gate at Rue de Babylone, and the one of the horses showed signs of nerves: the men were expert horsemen and the steeds were soon led into the garden and tied down so they could eat the lush grass. Jean promised to ask Toussaint to deliver them water, and led the men inside the house and into the dining room. Cosette rushed to ask Toussaint to deliver the officers some food, and the men sat down at his request. 

“We've all patrolled here before by Inspector Javert's command,” Lefavre explained, “and we've seen Mademoiselle Fauchelevent before. I was one of the officers in the raid where you were almost robbed, though I doubt you remember me,” he said slightly proudly. “We all knew Inspector Javert is engaged to Mademoiselle Fauchelevent and that he visits her every night,” he continued, “and when it turned out that... we asked for a permission to come and tell her of the situation.”

Jean saw Cosette clutch the table with both of her hands. Toussaint arrived with food and served them all, although he and Cosette had already eaten: Jean took a few bites out of politeness, which allowed the hungry young men to eat and drink properly.

“Inspector Javert was sent behind the enemy lines. I was to personally observe him from a distance, to see that he could safely integrate himself with the rebels. I saw him go with them to Rue de la Chanvrerie, though I could no longer go safely closer. There's a barricade there now, and a pack of rebels, but Inspector Javert has not come out.”

Cosette let out a horrified sob, her fingers turning white from clutching the table so hard, and the expressions on the faces of the young policemen showed pity. “He was supposed to come out in less than three hours, but when he did not arrive to deliver the information...” Lefavre looked saddened, although Jean was quite certain he'd have gladly traded places with Javert as Cosette's love. 

“We asked our superior for a permission to come and tell you. We'd have come sooner, but we wanted to be certain he wasn't simply detained by something, and finally it was so late...” the young man rambled now, looking very uncomfortable. “He's an excellent Inspector, Javert is. He's always watched after us, made sure we're not too tired to work, made sure we rest and eat. And we're sure he'd have wanted us to let you know, mademoiselle...”

“Thank you,” Jean interrupted the boy when he saw Cosette's shoulders shake in suppressed tears. “Would you excuse us for a moment?” Gently he helped Cosette up from her seat and guided her to her bedroom, where she collapsed completely, sobbing helplessly. Jean held her for a while, until Toussaint arrived: Jean asked the servant to keep the girl company and went to attend on the three young policemen. 

“My daughter is distraught, as you probably saw, gentlemen,” he told the men, “and she needs rest. Would it be possible for someone to come tell us if something new comes up?”

“Of course, M. Fauchelevent,” Lefavre replied. The three men had risen from their seats politely, even though they were obviously still very tired. “We thank you for your hospitality. It is much appreciated, but I'm afraid we've already stayed longer than we should have. Our superior expects us to join them immediately, and we must depart.”

“Of course. I wish you good luck for the rest of the battle, and thank you for protecting the city,” Jean said smoothly. “Which barricade did you say Inspector Javert went into?”

“Rue de la Chanvrerie, monsieur. It's in the direction of Saint-Merry.”

“Ah, indeed. Well, thank you again for taking the time, and please send our gratitude for your consideration to your superiors as well.”

“We will,” Lefavre promised and bowed: the two other men followed his example, and Jean led them outside to their horses and opened the gate for them. The men wished him good evening and once again asked him to belay their support for Mademoiselle Fauchelevent: he promised to do so, and the three young policemen took out their pistols, ready for an ambush if need be, and rode away. 

Jean closed the gate and went back inside. He took a small bottle of Laudanum for a cupboard and poured a small dose of cognac, then took it to Cosette, who was still on her bed, her arms wound tightly around her body. 

“Drink this,” he said, and helped her up. She clutched him and wet his shirt with her tears, and after a while Jean managed to get her to drink the cognac, sip by sip. She cringed at the taste but drank obediently, and soon her tears began to subside and her eyes drifted close, her harsh and ragged breathing became even, and she dozed off. Jean's thoughts raced in his head, his heart aching from the pain his daughter was going through. 

Toussaint was still standing by the door, wringing her hands and looking very concerned. The good-hearted older woman had a few tears of compassion on her cheeks. Jean left Cosette to sleep and left the room, gesturing Toussaint to follow him.

“I will be leaving the house for a while, Toussaint. I've given her Laudanum, and it should keep her asleep for a while now. I'll make another glass that you can give her if she wakes up while I'm gone and needs it. I shall... I shall write a letter for her, Toussaint, and you must give it to her if I am not back by noon tomorrow. No sooner, no later, do you understand?”

“Yes, monsieur, but surely you won't go out there, the revolt...” Toussaint stuttered.

“I will be safe, Toussaint, and a man does what a man must when God gives him an order in his heart,” Jean said. “I shall be very careful. Stay with her, loyal Toussaint, and watch over her. I'll leave the letter on my desk.”

Jean went quickly to his room and took out his National Guardsman's uniform. Sounds of gunfire broke the air from a distance, and Jean hurried. He penned a quick letter, into which he detailed the instructions on how to find the money he'd buried in the forest at Montfermeil. He also gave instructions on how to care for the property, and penned his will, making sure everything would remain with Cosette. He put on his familiar uniform. Then, out of the closet, he took out his gun and a cartridge-box filled with cartridges, loaded the gun and put the cartridge-box into his pocket. 

He then departed towards Saint-Merry.

 

***********************************************

 

Javert remained bound to the post in the tap-room of the _Corinthe_. The corpse of an old man lay close by, covered by a black cloth, and their leader, Enjolras, looked at Javert grimly and said, “This is the hall of the dead.”

Javert's feet ached, for he would not stoop so low as to crouch down on the floor in a humiliating posture: the ropes were tight, he was hungry and, more than anything, thirsty. He knew he'd die sooner or later, but his body craved wine, or water if no wine was available. The insurgents had drank wine but they had no food for themselves, let alone for a doomed spy: and none of them had given him anything to drink. Why waste anything on a corpse that still happened to breathe?

He heard them outside: another barricade still stood close by, but the army was bearing down on it. The one called Enjolras shouted to the group: 

“The whole army of Paris is to strike. A third of the army is bearing down upon the barricades in which you now are. There is the National Guard in addition. I have picked out the shakos of the fifth of the line, and the standard-bearers of the sixth legion. In one hour you will be attacked. As for the populace, it was seething yesterday, today it is not stirring. There is nothing to expect; nothing to hope for. Neither from a faubourg nor from a regiment. You are abandoned.” 

Another voice shouted in response: “So be it. Let us raise the barricade to a height of twenty feet, and let us all remain in it. Citizens, let us offer the protests of corpses. Let us show that, if the people abandon the republicans, the republicans do not abandon the people.” 

The leaders began to argue that some of the men should flee, disguised in the uniforms of the fallen National Guardsmen, and Javert tried to keep his ears peeled to identify the men who'd escape: it was of no use, of course, because he'd be killed sooner than he could give this information to his superiors, but this was a life-long habit. The idiots began to squabble over who'd be forced to leave, for none of them wanted to leave the others behind, and all wanted to remain behind and die together. New shouts indicated that a fifth uniform had been brought, and Javert's head jolted upwards when he recognised the voice: Jean Valjean. Cosette's father had entered the barricade, apparently dressed in the National Guard uniform, and surrendered it to them.

Was Valjean here to make sure he'd be killed? Most likely. Javert was a constant threat to the old convict: he'd chased Valjean for years, then caught up with him and taken his beloved daughter for his bride, threatening him if he'd tried to take her away. Valjean had no choice but to comply, knowing that if he'd flee, Javert would still take Cosette for his own and throw him back into galleys. He'd be able to disgrace Valjean in the eyes of his daughter, and when they'd be wed, he'd be able to prevent Valjean from ever seeing Cosette again. Not that he'd intended to do so: but Valjean was a thief and an escaped convict, and a criminal never stopped being one. 

Javert had closed his eyes, unwilling to shed tears, and trying to assuage the pain on his legs and back and his raging thirst. He heard a few new people enter, but refused to open his eyes, until he heard the man called Enjolars ask of him, “Do you want anything?”

Opening his eyes, Javert replied: “When are you going to kill me?”

“Wait. We need all our cartridges just at present.”

“Then give me a drink,” said Javert, his throat feeling rough, and he was certain his voice sounded raspy. Enjolras offered him a glass of water and helped him drink it, for his hands were tied behind his back. It soothed his parched throat. 

“Is that all?” inquired Enjolras.

“I am uncomfortable against this post,” replied Javert. “You are not tender to have left me to pass the night here. Bind me as you please, but you surely might lay me out on a table like that other man,” he said, nodding his head towards the dead man lying on a table. 

“Untie him and lay him on the other table, but tie him securely,” Enjolras commanded, and four insurgents unbound Javert from the post, while a fifth held a bayonet against his chest. They left his arms tied behind his back, tied his feet with a whip-cord which allowed him to take steps of about fifteen inches. He was allowed to walk to the table at the end of the room, and though his muscles ached, the chance to take steps felt good. They laid him down on the table, none too gently, though he'd expected nothing better, and tied him down from several places, in a way Javert knew well from prisons. 

Javert turned his head when a he saw a shadow, and saw Jean Valjean stand on the threshold, looking at him. Javert sighed, closed his eyes and said nothing at all. 

He was feeling more comfortable now, for the water had assuaged some of his worst hunger and quenched his thirst, and the cramps on his legs were easing up. He paid no further attention to anything until hours later, at dawn, when most of the men still fit for battle rushed outside and he heard them speak of cannons: soon, the shooting began in earnest, with the insurgents firing on the army. He kept his thoughts on Cosette, deciding to spend his last hours on Earth thinking about her. He remembered how lovely she'd looked when he first saw her, remembered his every encounter with her in loving detail. Then he spent more time remembering how she felt against his body, how warm she'd been, what her lips tasted like, and her sweet scent. 

He heard a cannon fire: his eyes flew open and he started at the surprising, unexpected sound of it, but closed his eyes again. They'd die, these foolish men, and they'd deserve it: they were betraying the law and order of things. Refusing to submit when the law demanded it, refusing to stand down and surrender when the authorities commanded it, and so they must pay for it. And because of them, Javert would not have his wedding night with his lovely Cosette, the only woman he'd ever loved. 

Damn them. Damn them all. 

The bells of Saint-Merry were ringing once again, and the voices exclaimed that other barricades were being raised all over Paris. In the middle of this, Jean Valjean entered the building again. 

“I have been given the permission to kill the spy,” he told evenly to the men in the room. “For saving the barricade.”

“What did you do?” one asked.

“Shot a mattress down and then carried it to stop the cannon-fire,” Valjean replied. “I was permitted, as my reward, to blow that man’s brains out. I am to take him to the little barricade of the Mondétour lane, so his corpse won't lie with ours.”

“Go on then. He's tied down, he won't get away. You have a pistol?”

“I do,” replied Valjean, and cocked it. 

Javert began to laugh his noiseless laughter, and gazing intently at the insurgents, he told them: “You are in no better case than I am.” 

Valjean approached him and loosened the ropes that tied him to the table and signalled him to rise. Javert smiled at him to show his superiority to the man who had to slay the betrothed of his daughter to keep them away from each other, this lowly convict about to become a murderer willingly. Valjean pulled him by the ropes like a mule, and Javert could only follow, for his feet were still tied together, his hands tied behind his back, and a martingale around his neck. From this Valjean led Javert through the barricade. The insurgents were concentrating on the sounds of the rebellions incited all over Paris, but many of them laughed at him, wishing him a merry way to Hell. Javert did not grace them with a response. 

Scaling the lower entrenchment in the Mondétour lane was difficult, but Valjean helped him get over it. 

“Take your revenge, coward, and Cosette away from me, for this is the only way you can do it,” Javert told him. 

Jean Valjean thrust the pistol under his arm and took out a knife. 

“A clasp-knife!” exclaimed Javert, “you are right. That suits you better.” 

Jean Valjean cut the martingale which Javert had about his neck, then he cut the cords on his wrists, then, stooping down, he cut the cord on his feet; and, straightening himself up, he said to him: 

“Now we'll both go to Cosette.” 

Javert was not easily astonished. Still, master of himself though he was, he could not repress a start. He remained open-mouthed and motionless. 

“She would not stop crying. I had to give her Laudanum to make her sleep after three of your men came to tell her you were missing. They told me where you'd gone. I shan't cause my daughter such misery or grief. Let us leave.” Valjean then aimed his pistol to the sky and fired, and began to walk away. “I hope you can find us a way out of here,” he added to Javert, who was still standing still. “I've given away my uniform, and we're both dressed like civilians.”

“I have my papers,” Javert said stiffly. “I will get us through.” Together, both men began to walk away. 

“You could have killed me and bought yourself freedom,” Javert said.

“I would have also bought Cosette heartbreak. She loves you. And I am no murderer.”

“You'd do anything for her.”

“As would you, Inspector Javert,” he said wisely, and Javert shut his mouth. He pulled out his papers from his pocket.

“Let me talk, Fauchelevent,” he said, using Valjean's assumed name. 

Soon, they were stopped by soldiers, who aimed their guns at them. “Halt!” Javert commanded with his hands raised, “I am Police Inspector Javert, and I have here my commands from the Prefect of Police!” He kept his identification card high and the arms of France engraved on it visible for them. 

One of the soldiers approached him while the others kept their weapons trained on Javert and Valjean. He took the papers to a lieutenant, who read them through, and asked Javert: “What about the other one?”

“This is Monsieur Fauchelevent, the father of my future wife. I was captured by the insurgents while spying on them, according to my orders: he heard from three of my men where I was and came after me, pretending to be on their side and set me free.”

“Let them both pass,” the lieutenant said, and the soldiers lowered their weapons. 

“Do you have information on the barricade, Inspector Javert?” the lieutenant asked more politely.

“I do.”

“Were you in the Rue de la Chanvrerie barricade?” 

“Yes.”

“Come with us, then. We are about to strike down on them, and information will help.

“Come along, Fauchelevent,” Javert commanded Valjean. “Follow me.”

“Inspector, many of them are barely older than boys, and there was a little boy in there, just a child,” Valjean said quietly. “Please have mercy on them.”

“They've chosen to defy order, Fauchelevent,” Javert replied, “and I cannot influence what the military decides to do to them. It is my task to bring them the information, nothing more. Had I not been captured, I would have attempted to sabotage their ammunition and gunpowder and the army might have been able to take more of them alive, to be sentenced according to the law.”

“They are desperate and hungry,” Valjean said quietly.

“The law is the law, and the law must not be defied,” Javert said, and glared at Valjean: he did not wish to go through this argument with the former convict, and especially not here, where they were surrounded by the military bent of crushing all signs of rebellion. He now had the duty to bring Cosette's father home. And more than anything he wanted to go to Rue Plumet, take his bride into his arms and hold her for hours.

He would never like Valjean: at best they would tolerate each other, Javert thought, but they were in agreement about one thing, and that thing was Cosette's happiness. If Valjean had decided that Cosette would be unhappy without him, and he knew she'd be unhappy without Valjean, they'd learn to tolerate each other and learn to exist in the same space. 

Javert relayed what he'd learned of the supplies and defences at the barricade to the military: how many weapons he'd seen, ammunition he'd heard them speaking about, and described the public-house they'd holed themselves into. His mission done, he was sent to report to Prefect Gisquet, his superior. 

Gisquet was busy, but took a brief report from Javert. “Well done,” he sighed. “You got free, and you'll be able identify the corpses, prisoners and those who possibly managed to flee. We'll need every man to assist in searching the sewers, however. Have you your uniform?”

“I left it in my lodgings,” replied Javert.

“Very well. I suggest you escort your future father-in-law home, eat a little and fetch proper clothing more suitable for a policeman. I know you well enough to know you'll want to get back to your duties, Inspector Javert, but you should take your time to greet your betrothed. Finest women are like frail flowers, they are easily bruised by the very thought of their men in danger.”

Had it not been for Cosette waiting for news of his health, Javert would have found himself a proper coat and joined the search immediately, resuming his duties without as much as a pause: now, the thought of Cosette waiting for him filled him with longing, and he departed with Valjean on tow. Javert took them two horses from the stables. Javert took a proper, fast steed, but Valjean confessed he wasn't an experienced rider, and selected an even-tempered older horse.

The journey to Rue Plumet seemed nearly endless: Valjean's steed was slow, and Javert had to resist his desire to rush his horse. Gisquet had supplied him with new papers, and they had to stop once to show them to a patrol that was sweeping Paris under the command of General Bugeaud, while Gisquet was in charge of underground sweeps. The sounds of ongoing battle could still be heard: the patrol sent them off almost immediately. 

“Some of my men came, you said?” Javert inquired as rode on.

“Yes. Three young officers by the names of Lefavre, Brunelle and Marine.”

“All good men,” Javert confirmed with a small nod of his head. 

“They said you hadn't been seen since you entered the barricade, and that they'd expected you back sooner. They knew Cosette would worry about you, knowing you visit her every day the same time, and so they waited until they were sure you wouldn't show up and then came to deliver the news. Cosette was distraught, and I gave her Laudanum mixed with cognac and left her in care of Toussaint.”

“You put her at risk,” Javer accused him. “She might have lost us both, and then where would she be?”

“I prayed to God for the best. And I couldn't live with her tears.”

“Still...”

“We're both alive, and she'll be happy to see you. Although she might be asleep, for I left Toussaint another dose of Laudanum and cognac in case she woke up and had another bout of nerves.”

They needn't have worried: when Javert and Valjean entered through the gate of Rue de Babylone, Cosette rushed through the door and towards them. Javert jumped off his steed and opened his arms to the girl, and she rushed straight into his arms, sobbing with relief. Their lips met despite Cosette's father being right next to them, and Javert could feel his heart hammer with relief, tension in his muscles easing.

“Father, you did it, you brought him back to me! Thank you, father, thank you!” Cosette cried, rushing to hug her father, who'd managed to dismount, although with much less grace than Javert. Soon, although not soon enough for Javert, she returned to his arms, and Javert could once again bury his nose into her brown, gold-streaked hair, and close his eyes with satisfaction. 

“Cosette,” Valjean said gently, “I believe the inspector hasn't eaten for quite some time. Perhaps we should take him inside and have Toussaint prepare him some food.”

“Ah! of course. I'll go and ask Toussaint immediately!” she cried, rushing inside. Javert couldn't help it: for the first time in his life he grinned boyishly.


	4. Chapter 4

Cosette rushed indoors, her heart nearly bursting with happiness and relief, and asked Toussaint to bring food and wine for the inspector. She rushed back to him immediately, finding him entering the house, and remained close to him as they went into the dining room. Toussaint brought him a cold meal, for nothing warm was prepared, but Javert said that a cold meal was well and good for him for now, and that he'd have to return to his duties soon.

For now, Cosette sat down next to him, barely taking her eyes off him. She'd woken up an hour ago and cried quite badly, but refused the Laudanum offered by Toussaint, wanting to hear the news of Javert when it came. She trusted her father: if father had gone, it meant he'd gone to get Javert, and father would find him, of that she was certain.

Neither of the men wished to speak of what had happened in the barricades: they said it was too ugly to discuss, and Cosette felt uncomfortable and sad, for she knew that many must have died. All too soon Javert took his leave: he'd pick up his uniform from his home and then join the search in the sewers. He assured her they weren't expecting any major trouble: the barricades would fall and the only thing left to do was to capture those trying to flee, find out their involvement in the revolt and sentence them according to law.

Taking both horses with him he departed: he'd kissed her gently and promised to return to her as soon as he'd finished his duties. Cosette was left with her father and Toussaint, who began preparing a warm stew that could be served when the inspector returned: he did, later that night, several hours later: he'd met the three young officers and thanked them for relaying the news to Fauchelevent and his daughter, inadvertently saving his life. The men had sent their best greetings.

Javert had visited his home, cleaned himself and changed into his uniform. He enjoyed Toussaint's stew and held Cosette's hand gently. He sat with Cosette in the parlour for two hours despite being obviously exhausted: both basked in the relief of being together and alive. The revolt seemed to be over, and their wedding day would soon come. They once again spoke of the future, of living together as Monsieur and Madame Javert, of the garden they'd plant, of the rooms they'd furnish, and of the years they'd spend together.

* * *

The next week M. Fauchelevent made a surprising decision and gave up the apartments he had on Rue de l'Homme Armé and Rue de l'Ouest. He had Cosette select the things she wanted for her new home with Inspector Javert from the two apartments: and so the new couple would have furniture and some linen for their new home: beds, curtains, sheets, mattresses and blankets were delivered by hired men to the house Javert had bought for them, unpacked and put into their places. Their banns were published, and it was agreed that Toussaint would move in with Cosette and Javert and become their servant, for M. Fauchelevent claimed he needed no servant. He'd stay at Rue Plumet, to stay close to his daughter.

The two men did have disagreements from time to time, although they did their best to keep them out of Cosette's hearing: the worst disagreement was about dowry. Monsieur Fauchelevent had disappeared for a while, and upon return informed Javert that his daughter's dowry was nearly six hundred thousand francs. Javert was unwilling to accept the money, for he did not wish to touch money that might have been illegally made: Valjean sat down and told his entire story to Javert, from start to finish, and finally Javert accepted that the money was legally made. He refused the entire amount and accepted only three hundred thousand francs, stating that he earned well enough as an inspector, and that Cosette's future would be secure.

After that day, when Javert and Valjean sat down and Valjean spoke his story, a tale he'd never told anyone, the two men learned to tolerate each other better. Valjean had always respected Javert as a man who did his duty, and Javert learned to understand his former enemy a little better. Cosette had changed him; being saved by Valjean had changed him some more; being happy had changed him the most, and from that day on Javert thought of Jean Valjean as Ultime Fauchelevent.

Together they agreed never to speak to her about what she'd gone through in her youth, or what her poor mother had ended up doing in her desperation: Fauchelevent told her that her mother's name was Fantine, had golden hair, and that she'd died. Ultime Fauchelevent would remain Cosette's father by mutual decision.

* * *

Despite the fears Inspector Javert had had in the barricade, tied into a pole with thirst and hunger churning in his gut, the morning of his wedding day dawned. After the church they had a small banquet in the home of Ultime Fauchelevent: they had few guests, all of them from Javert's work, with officers Lefavre, Marine and Brunelle as very honoured and welcome guests.

That evening they entered their new home as a married couple for the first time. Her clothes had been brought in earlier, and everything was set. He'd waited for this moment for months, and sometimes he felt like he'd been waiting for this moment all of his life, and here they were. Toussaint and Javert's servant Londres were staying the night in Monsieur Fauchelevent's home: namely to clean up, but truthfully to give the new couple the privacy of the wedding night. They would be back early in the morning in time to make breakfast.

"Madame Javert," he whispered into her ear as he led her into their new home and into her bedroom. Their kisses turned heated as they made their way into the bedroom, their hands finally roaming to where they'd wanted to go for months. Her every touch made him burn: his breath was ragged and harsh, his cock hard and needy in his trousers, and every time her body touched his groin, he groaned as pleasure hit him.

His hands shook as he undressed her: she was obviously nervous but seemed to want this just as much as he did. "Husband," she whispered, her voice shaking.

"My wife," he replied, unlacing her corset. Every new inch of skin revealed made his blood feel like fire, and he could feel the blood pound in his ears. When they undressed him and he laid her down, covering her body with his, he felt like he might die of wanting her so much. She tried to hide her breasts with her hands, but Javert pulled her hands away. "Don't hide from me, Cosette. You are so very beautiful."

"I've never been with a woman," he confessed to her in the candle-lit room, kissing her beautiful, perfect nipples. Prostitutes were available in many places, from cheap whores to medium-priced prostitutes and to ludicrously expensive courtesans, and he'd had many offers from them, sometimes free of charge when they'd wished him to turn an eye away from some of their illicit activities such as petty thefts, but he'd never accepted: he'd seen the men who'd contracted various diseases from cheap whores, witnessed first-hand how many of them were involved with illegal activities in addition to legal prostitution, and, most of all, felt like he'd be a better person if he'd remained as chaste as a monk. He was a man, with needs of his own, but he'd kept his vices to the pinch of snuff, and right now he was glad of it: he'd experience this act with his wife.

He kneed his way between her thighs, and she wrapped her perfect, slender legs around him, pulling him closer. The silky skin of her thigh felt divine on his penis: kissing her lips he cautiously probed her with the tip of his cock, and found delightful, moist warmth that seemed to lure him to push in. Pleasure rushed through him like a wave, and he'd only managed to insert the tip of his aching length when his orgasm hit him unexpectedly and without a warning: his hips thrust and bucked and he spent himself between her legs in a matter of seconds, his body convulsing with indescribable pleasure. He panted like an animal and felt a mixture of shame and elation.

"I'm sorry, Cosette, I couldn't... couldn't stop," he whispered, feeling his cheeks flush with shame, though his large sideburns covered most of it.

"You enjoyed it?" she asked.

"A little too much, I'm afraid," he admitted.

"I thought it'd hurt," she said shyly. Her cheeks had pinked: she was so very innocent, his sweet Cosette.

"Oh, I'm afraid I didn't get that far," he had to admit. "I'll have to go deeper. I was too inexperienced, too exited..."

"It doesn't matter," she said with a gentle smile. "We have all night, don't we?"

"We do," he said, kissing her chin, then both her cheeks, her nose and finally her lips. "I'll get a cloth and clean you up a bit, then we can explore each other properly." He rose from the bed and found a cloth, which he used to clean his seed. While he did so, he noticed she gasped and squirmed: he changed the movements of his hands and was rewarded with pleasured a coo. With a smirk, he continued to caress her lower lips with both the cloth and then his fingers, observing her reactions to his touch.

She'd thrown her head back and opened her legs to admit his hands: her gasps became breathy moans, rising in pitch and volume until she was begging for more, shaking and writhing under his fingers. He could feel her growing wet under his fingers, until she seemed to seize, her hips jerking under his ministrations: her pleasure, her orgasm, Javert knew. He was impossibly hard now, his cock aching for her again, and she was still coming down from her pleasure when he crawled back over her and positioned himself on her entrance.

"Ah, Cosette, my wife, I need to... I want to..." he gasped, and then he had to push himself inside her. He buried himself inside her, unable to think of anything but the maddening, silky and moist heat that enveloped him. She'd let out a small scream of pain, and he answered her with a ragged groan: pleasure lanced through him again, and he had to remain still, lest he lose control immediately. He could feel her quiver underneath him, and he could feel his cock pulsing with the rapid beat of his heart.

He felt her hidden muscles clench around his cock, causing another arc of pleasure, and now he could do nothing but move, to push himself deeper inside her, again and again and again. She let out small gasps, but Javert was nearly insensate to anything but the feel of her: she'd wrapped her arms around him, she was kissing his lips and she felt so good. Now his body demanded him to push faster faster faster... and then, blessedly, he came with a hoarse, wordless howl of pleasure, his body bucking and convulsing, his cock twitching as his orgasm shook him to the core, taking everything he had.

"Cosette," he panted, "Cosette, my Cosette..."

He covered her face with kisses, and her hands caressed his scarred back. She smiled at him, that gentle and sweet smile he'd learned to know so well.

"I'm sorry it had to hurt. Does it still hurt very much, my love?"

"No, no, it only hurt a little while."

"It shouldn't hurt any more, from what I've understood," he said.

"I was expecting worse, from what Toussaint told me."

Javert snorted. "It can be very pleasurable for both."

"It was!"

"Was it now?" he asked with a smirk and kissed her. "You'll have to wait until I've recovered. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"I'll wait," she said with a smile. "I'm a bit sore, really, down there."

"I'm sorry, my Cosette."

"Don't be. I'm glad we're together like this."

"As am I," he whispered, slipping out of her and moving to lay by her side as not to crush her, for his arms and hands were tiring, and he felt deliciously languid.

"May I ask...?"

"You may," he said gently.

"Your back. You've scars..."

"Yes. Some of my scars are from work, though mostly from the earlier days. Criminals can be violent. Some are from my childhood."

"Childhood?"

"Yes. Some are from leather belt, some from whip and some from a stick. Punishments for disobedience. Breaking the rules."

"So cruel..." Cosette sounded so very sad.

"Perhaps," he replied, keeping his voice even. "I'd prefer not to talk about it."

"As you wish, my love," she murmured and kissed his lips again.

He pulled her closer into his arms, pulling the bed curtains close around the bed, for the room was already cooling down. "Sleep now, my love."

"I love you, husband."

"I love you, wife."

* * *

**Six Months later**

Cosette was sitting with her father in his house at Rue Plumet. This was a frequent occurrence: her husband worked hard, and Cosette's father welcomed her company. Javert's servant Londres walked her daily to her father's home, often staying to cook for a bit. Londres adored Madame Javert and respected old Monsieur Fauchelevent.

It was a tradition of Cosette and her father: her father would tell her of the things he'd read in his books while she'd sit next to him, listening attentively. They'd done so since Cosette had been a little girl, and one day Cosette's father would sit and tell her children, his own grandchildren, of the same things.

Cosette heard Londres talk and a familiar voice respond: her husband had arrived. Cosette smiled: he was late again, although not as late as he sometimes was, when he got involved in a chase for some criminal or in a group of ruffians. Cosette had a spare bedroom in her father's home in case he was detained for a night, although she rarely stayed for the night.

"Fauchelevent. Cosette, good day to you. Forgive me for being late," her husband sighed as he entered.

"You're not," Cosette's father replied with a smile. "Londres prepared a supper but we've yet not eaten. We were hoping you'd arrive on time. He's made rabbit stew."

"Cosette shouldn't delay her meals," Javert said, "not in her condition." He looked at her and tried to look stern, but his dark eyes sparkled with pride as he looked at his pregnant wife.

"Father had me take some tea and bread not half an hour ago," she defended herself and her father.

"Not the same," Javert said and kissed her cheeks. "You're eating for two, my love."

"And there's no chance of forgetting that," she laughed, and her father chuckled happily.

"Was there some criminal at large again?" she asked.

"Not this time. We caught Brujon, sent him away this morning. No, I was delayed by a wedding procession. Familiar faces, actually."

"Really?"

"Yes, quite a surprising coincidence, really. The young lawyer who gave us a warning of the robbery at the Gorbeau house, if you remember? Where I learned your name, my love? Turns out the man is a Baron. Lived there in poverty, but he seemed to be doing well for himself now, riding in fine carriages to his wedding. The bride seemed familiar too, though I couldn't quite remember when I've seen her. She wasn't very pretty. Seemed very happy, though."

"I do love weddings," Cosette said with a gentle smile. "They remind me of my own happy day."

"I think we should go and enjoy the rabbit," father said, and her husband helped her rise from her chair. "Shall we?"

* * *

**Two years later**

"Cosette, sweetheart," Javert said, untangling his son from his left leg, "I've some news."

"Do tell, my love," Cosette said, waddling across the floor and sat down on a sofa. She was heavily pregnant. "Anatole, let your father settle down. He's not going to escape, you know."

"My son is a born policeman," he said with a gentle smirk. "He's trying to arrest his own papa."

"We'll take him to my father soon, he can try arrest him daily for a while. The baby will come any day now," she said, and Javert seemed to choke for a while, a strange mixture of laughter and something Cosette couldn't understand.

"Your father will appreciate it. He adores Anatole."

"He does. You had news, my love?"

"Oh, yes. It seems I'll be promoted next month. You're looking at a new commissary of police, wife."

"Wonderful!" she cried, extending her hand to clasp his. "My wonderful Monsieur le Commissaire."

* * *

Cosette's third pregnancy and childbirth were rough, and their youngest son, Alexandre, had weak lungs. The entire family — Javert, his wife and father-in-law and their three children — moved away from Paris to a small village an about two days of travel away. Javert retired from his post as commissary of police, but after living a year in the little village he was elected as Monsieur le Maire. Old Monsieur Fauchelevant had laughed so much he cried, and Javert looked put out, although he refused to tell Cosette exactly why. The two men had a lot of secrets together, but Cosette had learned to accept it. They were, after all, the two dearest men in her life.

Monsieur Fauchelevent lived to see all three of his grandchildren born. He died when the youngest child was almost seven years old: he'd had slight pains for quite a while, but in the end he went quite peacefully. He'd moved in with Cosette and Javert half a year previously, too ill to live on his own.

He had spent an hour alone with Javert the previous evening. Though the two men had lived peacefully for several years, they hadn't spoken at length since the night Jean Valjean told Inspector Javert his entire story: the two men spoke now, seriously, openly, of everything, expressing regrets, sorrows, talking about happiness and of the children and Cosette. They shook hands and parted as friends.

That evening, surrounded by his family, old Fauchelevent fell asleep for the last time. Cosette was quite certain he'd addressed someone called Bienvenu Myriel, and he also said the name of Cosette's mother, Fantine. He looked very peaceful, but he was sorely missed: little Anatole, especially, cried for days for his grandfather.

Javert did well as Monsieur le Maire. He was known for being loyal and just, a man who could not be bought or corrupted by any power on earth, unless one counted a smile from his sweet wife, which always seemed to make the strict and harsh-looking man soften. He was a good and adoring father, although the suitors to his second child, his daughter Adeline, feared him greatly: but the man who finally had the honour and pleasure of earning her hand in marriage was a good, successful man who worshipped Adeline as much as Monsieur le Maire Javert worshipped his Cosette.

Adeline and Alexandre looked a lot like Cosette, while Anatole favoured his father in appearance: they had all inherited his honesty, though all three were also as gentle, generous and kind as their mother. Anatole became a policeman and was advancing well in his career: he'd one day become an inspector and quite possibly a commissary of police, Javert proudly thought. Alexandre was studious and went to study law: he would one day become a judge, a well-respected man.

Many men envied Monsieur Javert for his beautiful young wife. They remained true and loyal to each other until the end of their days, and their love was unwavering and undeniable.

When France became a republic in the Great Revolution of 1848, Javert tried to quit his post as Monsieur le Maire, citing that he'd served the old regime. The locals would have none of it: he'd done his job well, and they stopped him from quitting his post. The new government ordered them to have an election, in which they elected for things to remain exactly as they had been before. So much so that after old Monsieur le Maire had passed away, they elected his eldest son to the next Monsieur le Maire, despite the fact that he was very young: for them, if one Javert did the job well, then the second Javert would do just as well as the previous one.

And so he did.

Cosette was 42 years old when she became pregnant for the fourth time. They hadn't expected it: they still loved each other with fiery passion, but their love hadn't led to pregnancy since Alexandre. She was seven months along when she went visiting a local family and tripped in their long and narrow staircase, as their cat sped past her: she fell down hard, and the baby was born prematurely. The baby, a boy, never breathed, and the injuries caused by the fall caused internal bleeding. Cosette Javert died in childbed in the early hours of the morning.

Her death was the beginning of the end for old Javert. He was 77 years old, and though he'd always been a big, strong man, he'd become slightly frail with age. His health began a rapid descent when his wife died: he grieved and refused to eat, then contracted a fever: he was delirious when his elder son last saw him, and spoke to their late mother as if she were in the room. He also addressed someone called "Valjean" with a voice that rang with happiness, though nobody knew or had ever heard that name. During the night he had passed away peacefully.

Javert's children, all well-loved and respected people, buried him next to his wife in the cemetery of that little rural village, and many cried for him. Their children and grandchildren for many generations lived there, or went elsewhere and did many great things.


End file.
